


Carnival Games

by Nattish



Series: A Balancing Act [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Genderbending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:51:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nattish/pseuds/Nattish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[SEQUEL FIC] The war is over. Having spent the last year spying for the Order and trying his best to protect his father from Voldemort’s wrath, Draco has come out alive, if alone. He didn’t return to Hogwarts for 8th year, and now he’s left wondering what to do with himself and why he misses Harry Potter so very much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the sequel to [A Balancing Act](http://archiveofourown.org/works/973317/chapters/1913548) and [Bearded Lady](http://archiveofourown.org/works/977109/chapters/1922303) and should not be read stand-alone!

 

 

***

 

On Christmas morning, I walk into the drawing room to find my father already settled into his chair with a snifter of brandy in one hand and the other hand stroking his tawny-blond beard. The sight is jarring. I’ve grown used to the brandy, that lasso that pulls him out of bed each morning, but the beard is a constant reminder of how hard the war hit him, how far his spirit has fallen, and how unlikely it is he’ll try to pick it back up. I drop into my chair beside him, staring at the tree. It’s a wonder I can see it at all. A green hat of bristles pokes out of the top of a gargantuan pile of beautifully wrapped boxes. Store-wrapped, for sure. They probably weren’t even done by hand. That was one of the things Mum liked to do, wrap with her own hands. She said it made the gift more personal, and I think, looking at my father’s mountain of cold, consumable love, she was right.

“So, you bought Diagon Alley,” I say.

Dad grimaces over the snifter. “I didn’t know what you wanted.”

“Thank you. I would rather have had Hogsmeade, though.”

He laughs raspily. Must be his second or third drink. He doesn’t react if he’s sober.

A house-elf unwraps my gifts: the latest Nimbus model broom, athletic robes, night vision Quidditch goggles, a super sensitive Sneakoscope, a gold-plated cage for my owl, a self-filling flask with my initials engraved, a fortune in leather goods (boots, belts, jackets, and gloves), and two baby kneazles. I’m not a cat person, so I put them in the kitchen with some kippers and consider giving them to Pansy.

I got Dad a Dunhill pipe, some tobacco, and a pocket watch that contains an old photo I found in my bedroom. It’s of him, Mum, and me. In the photo, I’m blotchy red, sweating, and hugging them both after my championship game in the junior Quidditch league in Wiltshire. Nowadays, I’m sure I won because I had the most expensive broom, but I don’t know it in the picture. I wave and hold up the Snitch and Mum kisses me and Dad looks smug.

He closes the pocket watch, presses his fingertips into his eyes, and stays that way for a long time.

There’s a dribbling sound, like marbles falling onto a pillow. I look up. The brandy is spilling out of the snifter as his hand goes limp.

“Dad,” I say, jumping up and grabbing it.

He chokes. I realize he’s sobbing.

This has never happened before.

I step away.

“I’m sorry,” I say, looking at the bare tree. No one bothered with fairy lights. Mum and I, we liked to...

I close my eyes. He’s still sobbing.

“Dad, I’m sorry. I’ll throw it away.”

I reach for the watch, but his grip tightens. He grabs my wrist. It’s painful. He’s trying to get up, climbing me. My hands go under his armpits to heave him up. He smells so potently of spirits that I must turn my head; I’ve had my share of alcohol these past months, and I want no part of it. He’s leaning on me. I’m not a small man, but Dad is still larger and heavier. We sway there, my arms trembling, until he sniffles and I think his eyes are dry.

His voice is quiet, but it’s like shouting to my ears in this bleak, silent room. “ _I’m_ sorry. I killed your mother, Draco. I deserve to die.”

If I weren’t holding him, I would have lurched back. “No.”

“You were right to side with Dumbledore. There is no good here. In this house. Where I let that monster reside. And...I’m a monster, too.”

“Dad, no—”

“I was prideful. I put my pride before your safety. Her safety. I told her when we married that the blood politics would never touch our family, and I let it. _Twice_ I let it. She paid the price. It should have been me. It...should have been....”

He is staring past my shoulder at the tree, eyes pink, mouth slowly opening, the beard touching his chest. It’s as if he has fallen asleep with his eyes open.

“There was nothing you could have done,” I say firmly.

He’s still distant. “No, I could have—”

“You were in jail when they killed her. If anyone could have done something, it was me.”

“It wasn’t your resp—”

“I _know_ it wasn’t my responsibility. But I blamed myself. No, not anymore—don’t look at me like that. I’ve forgiven myself. I have. And I forgive you.”

He pulls back, putting his hands on my shoulders, looking at me directly, and it’s as though I’m looking into my own eyes. I know we have similar eyes, large and blue-grey and often angrier-looking than is really the case, but I’m referring to the soul behind them, a soul that longs for recognition and glory and to be acknowledged as good and true. I think, now, that I am good and true. And this is the man I am made from.

“I know you were scared,” I say, still perturbed to be comforting my own father, but I push on because I _need_ him to be okay. “When you asked me to come into Voldemort’s fold, I mean. I was angry with you at first, thinking you should have tried harder to keep me out. But now I understand what it’s like to feel trapped. To feel like you don’t have a choice. Dumbledore did that to me. Voldemort did that to you. I understand. And I forgive you. Mum would, too. I know it.”

He lifts his chin. He swallows.

“I’m sorry, son.”

“I know.”

He hugs me. It’s the first time he’s done so deliberately since all of this happened. It’s the first time he’s apologized.

Fuck Christmas gifts. This year, I got my father back.

 

 

***

 

“You’re down,” Dad says at breakfast a few days later. He’s clean-shaven, his hair is cut short, and he smells like soap instead of brandy. Although his voice is still quiet, the spirit behind it is sounding less dead everyday.

I push aside the newspaper. “Must be tired.”

“Not just this morning. You’ve been like this for a long time. Ever since we came home.”

“I’m surprised you noticed me at all.”

He quirks a sad cheek. “Hard not to notice all those parties you had this summer. All those teenagers in my gardens and the spare rooms.”

I wave a hand, but cannot help blushing. “Just needed the distraction.”

“Which rather proves my point. Whatever’s the matter, you can talk to me.”

We don’t talk. We eat, though I mostly stab my slab of ham and let it fall off the fork. Dad must have requested this. The elves know I prefer bacon. But I’m glad he’s eating at all. I flip up the corner of the newspaper, sigh, and flip it back down.

He lifts an eyebrow, chewing. When he opens the paper, he snorts.

“Who decided this prattle was news? ‘ _Harry Potter: the Hero, the Hunk_.’ What is a hunk?”

“I don’t know,” I say, staring bitterly out the window. What I really don’t know is how my father manages to be so old-fashioned.

He clicks his tongue at the photograph in the _Prophet_. Harry Potter smiles back at him, handsome, broad-shouldered, bright-eyed, leaning far too casually against a tree for it not to have been posed.

“They act as though it’s a feat to go through puberty,” Dad mutters. He flicks his wand. The paper vanishes, presumably into the servants’ rubbish bin. “Don’t trouble yourself with it, Draco. You’re a saint for putting up with that arrogant boy and his lot for as long as you did. Now it’s time for you to reap your just rewards.”

“I don’t want rewards. I just want...to forget.”

He eyeballs me for the rest of breakfast, clearly bothered with how cryptic I’m being, but not pushing. I’m thankful. Even if I could talk to him about what I want, there’s no way I could get it. It doesn’t exist anymore. I made sure of that when I killed Albus Dumbledore.

Later, I have a house-elf sneak me the paper out of the bin. I lay on my bed, staring at the photo.

The longer I go without Potter, the stupider I feel for walking away. At the time, the proper choice was clear. I thought, _He has a penis. What am I supposed to do with that?_ There was nothing to do with that. I was a man, after all. I loved women, and Potter no longer fit the description. l cut the cord fast, spared us both the agony of a drawn-out breakup, and got on with life. Except I didn’t. I wallowed. Imagine me! Draco Malfoy! Wallowing! Parties helped—at least, the drinking numbed the ache in my gut, but after the ache turned out to be alcohol poisoning, I spent several nights stooped over the loo realizing I’d made a terrible mistake.

I missed Potter.

I _miss_ Potter.

My words to him in sixth year were true. _I like you_. _Just you_. And whatever incarnation “you” came in, I wanted it if “you” was Harry James Potter.

In the photograph, he blinks at me, those eyes as sweet and doltish as can be. I understand now that his eyes are no different than before, and perhaps with the sharper bone structure and the hollowing cheeks that come with his newfound manhood, they are even more striking in greenness. And his smile is no different, nor his laughter, nor his hands, nor the dimple of his cheek. And those are things I value more than sex in the end, are they not? Those wholesome, genderless things.

But the sex itself? With him? With a _penis_ on him? Let’s just say I haven’t managed to think directly about that.

Despite my regrets, I couldn’t bear returning to school in September: I had scorned him. I had made my choice and there was no way I could crawl back now, humiliate myself, probably get laughed off the grounds by “hunky” Harry Potter and his stylishly war-ravaged friends. _Ha ha ha Draco Malfoy’s gay! Well, not with me! Be gone!_ He’d be right to say that to me after what I did to him, recoiling from his touch like his hands were blotted with poison, like his cock was a blade, like his gentle words were hexes. I hadn’t even _tried_ to accept him.

I look at his photo, memorize his gaze, and then ball up the paper and chuck it across the room.

Snow has been falling hard this winter. I watch it, deep in thought.

Dad is right. I’ve got to reap my just rewards.

 

 

***

 

When I open my eyes, Harry is above me. I know this is a dream because he wouldn’t be called “Harry” otherwise.

He’s stroking my cheek, seems to be listening to the way the hair bristles across his thumb. If I move, surely he will disappear. His smooth, pale face breaks into a smile. He leans close and whispers, “How can I please you?”

Simple question. No simple answer. “What?”

“You can tell me.”

“I can’t even tell myself.”

The mattress sinks with his weight. He slides a leg over my body. That’s when I notice the skirt. It’s grey wool, a standard school uniform, short enough to reveal the fullest part of his thigh and the lower swell of his arse. It takes all my will not to push it up those creamy legs, those legs that have parted for me so many times but now seem foreign; they look no different, but I don’t know what’s in between them.

“Harry,” I whimper.

His hands are braced on my chest, reminding me of days when he’d fuck himself in my lap. Back then, his lips would part, his head would fall back, and his hips would roll forcefully, almost as if he were using _me_ for pleasure.

Harry looks concerned. He leans forward, so his hands slide up my chest towards my throat, and for a moment I worry this will be the sort of dream where his face will warp into Voldemort’s and I will be jostled awake with his flame-coloured eyes and cackling, but Harry’s hands slide over my throat to cup my cheeks. He smiles again. He rolls his pelvis forward. My mouth opens. It’s still there. His soft, hot little area. I know it’s not there in real life, but this is real life for now and I believe in every sensation consuming me. His knickers are steamy hot, the fabric rubbing against the length of my prick, the crease resting on top of my bulge, as if his pussy lips would swallow me if there were no barrier. His narrow hips are rolling, the skirt swaying like a fabric bell, his inner thighs blushing pink where they rub against my trousers; the image is so captivating that I can’t contain myself. I grab him by the hips. He gasps, eyes closing. He wants it, too, but doesn’t want to say so. Naughty thing. Naughty little Harry. I’m bucking now, my forearms flexing with exertion, and his pussy is parting in the knickers and swallowing the backside of my cock, and it’s just so—so—I’m going to come, baby, I’m going to come—

No, not yet!

I sit up, locking my arms around his waist. Such a tiny waist. His legs are bent so his thighs run along my ribs and his pussy is pressed against my stomach. I hike up his skirt, shoving my hands down the back of his knickers, rocking him by the flesh of his arse, as I look up at him.

“Let me get in you. Yeah? Let me come inside you.”

“You can,” he whispers. “But it would be different.”

I shake my head, work my hand to the front of his knickers. “Nothing’s different. It’s okay, all right? Just let me….”

Where I expect to feel hair and wetness, there is something else. Really, _nothing_ else. It’s just skin, smooth and flat. Doll-like. Where his arse closes into a perineum, it simply never reopens into any kind of genitals. It makes me want to vomit. I remove my hand.

“It’s okay.” Harry cups my cheeks again. “It’s okay, you know. I’m the same.”

He’s so tender, but something prevents me from enjoying his affection. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll help you.”

“Harry,” I whisper, shaking my head. My eyes are stinging. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Will you fuck me like you used to? Call me dirty names? Bend me over and fill me up? God, it turns me on, Draco. Don’t you still think about me—even without my pussy?”

“I can’t. Not now. I can’t let myself.”

“You can’t _let_ yourself? It’s strange you should have to hold back so actively.” He doesn’t sound turned on now. His voice is low and steady and he’s glowering at me. “Was it ever a secret I had the face of a boy? The voice? The bloody _name_?”

“No,” I choke out.

“And you still wanted me then. Didn’t you? Draco, just kiss me. You might like it.”

I do. I kiss him. It’s familiar, comforting. I missed his lips so. His arms are around my head like gentle wings. When I wrap my arms around him, I feel nothing but my erection between the crease of his thigh and the nothingness between his legs, and the petal-soft skin of his back, and his heart fluttering against my hands.

 

 

***

 

It’s Sunday. Apparently, that’s the day to brunch.

I loosen my cravat, sweating despite the snowfall outside, and give my father the evil-eye from across the ballroom. He doesn’t notice. He’s mingling with Ministry officials, trying to get us “back in the game” and succeeding, I think, watching the Undersecretary of Communications throw back his fat head and laugh at one of Dad’s stale jokes. I know he wants me mingling, too. He wants me doing something besides sitting around the manor pruning my Quidditch broom and sending things flying around my bedroom with my index finger, but we seem to have switched roles: he’s moving on with life and I’m staring out the window, thinking of the past.

A house-elf pops up with champagne in orange juice. I snatch a glass, turn green at the smell of alcohol, and place it back on the tray.

“Rude,” someone says, touching the small of my back. It’s Pansy, smirking. She waves the elf away.

“I didn’t drink it.”

“You touched it.”

“Touch this,” I say, making a lewd gesture.

“Tried. You wouldn’t let me.”

“Well—”

I look away, toward a balding red-haired man piling fruit onto a saucer at the buffet. I think it’s Arthur Weasley, and I’m embarrassed I don’t know for certain even though I spent a week at the man’s house the summer before the war.

“Oh,” she says, amused. “Not talking to me still?”

“I never stopped talking to you. You just _went home_ after that party. Like everyone else. Merlin.”

“Well, I’m sorry for being confused. I just didn’t expect to get rejected so unceremoniously by my ex-boyfriend—who’s _supposed_ to be the horniest person I know, mind you. Terribly humiliating for me.”

An old witch shuffles by, putting her hand to her chest and muttering something about ladylike language or lack thereof. Pansy scowls. I snicker, without much humor, and wander to the balcony and stare out at the lower floor of the Ministry. The gathering is huge. There’s another couple hundred officials, guests, press persons, and walking pocketbooks like my father meandering around the atrium near the fountain, drinking champagne, eating pastries, and patting themselves on the back for not having died in the war or something.

“You have nothing to say to me?” Pansy asks, leaning over the railing so her breasts push up.

“Are you still talking about this?” I ask, annoyed as Hell but trying not to show it. “Look, I’m sorry. But I didn’t think you really wanted me. I think you wanted a boyfriend who wasn’t in Azkaban—a safety net to catch you now that your family has fallen down the social ladder. Well, I’ve got news for you. We may not be in prison, but that doesn’t make me your automatic fall-back.”

She’s hurt. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned Nott. Or, well, any of that. And, Merlin, do I hate that chin-trembling thing, so I put my hand on her arm and squeeze. She leans into the touch. I stiffen, and she pulls back, looking even more hurt than before.

“Pansy, come on, what did I do?”

“Nothing, clearly nothing!” She tromps away, dress robes flapping.

I really don’t understand women. This makes me regret giving up Potter more than ever, and isn’t that ironic, now that I think of it?

Someone clears his throat. Dad has shown up with a full champagne flute. He stands beside me, looking over the balcony, not drinking it. I guess it’s just for show. Speaking of shows, “Mission accomplished?” I ask.

“Close. I may get a spot on the board that regulates international trade of magical creatures.”

“Great.”

My hand goes to my cravat again. He lifts an eyebrow at me, and I stop. I don’t want to look foolish, I guess. It means a lot to Dad to get a position somewhere in the Ministry, so he can go about diminishing the unfavourable effects that living with a Dark Lord for a year can have on one’s family's reputation.

“Is that what’s been bothering you?” he murmurs, inclining his head towards Pansy and her parents. They’re speaking with Minister Shacklebolt, erupting with forced laughter, and his shiny brown head is wrinkled with discomfort.

“Her? No.”

“No? You looked... _intimate_ just now.”

“Fluke. We’ve been over for a long time.”

“Hm.” He swirls his champagne until he realizes I don’t plan to elaborate. “Pardon me,” he says, stepping back, “it seems I’ve lost my knack for speaking with you about such matters.”

I sigh. I know he’s trying to help, not just to fix my menial problems but to mend our bond and, essentially, our whole family's bond, since we’re all the family either has got left.

“Dad,” I say quickly. I look over my shoulder, finding there is no one in listening distance. “The truth is...what’s bothering me...is at Hogwarts.”

He is not patronizing. He never has been with this subject. He looks out at the sea of heads again and says, “So it is a girl.”

I tilt my head awkwardly and say, “Sure.”

“And if she’s at Hogwarts, then why aren’t you?”

“Er. I guess I can’t face her. I did something cruel. Probably unforgivable.”

“Such as?”

“I can’t even say.”

“That bad?”

I don’t answer. I look at his drink. He hands it to me, and I throw it back, eyes watering. A house-elf appears. I place the empty glass on his tray and swipe another. My stomach is already churning.

Dad smirks. “A girl who can make a man drink like that must be special.”

I am chugging. I close my eyes, wipe my mouth, groan in confirmation, and drop the second glass onto the tray—which turns out to be gone, but the glass disappears before it shatters.

“That’s enough, Draco.”

“I was an idiot,” I say roughly.

“Oh, I believe you. But you told me the other day that your mother would have forgiven me for the things I put her through. You don’t think that’s the case for you?”

“That’s different. It was Mum. And you were—”

“I was afraid. Just like you said.” He looks me up and down. I must look like a prat, swaying over two champagnes. “And why did _you_ do...whatever it is you did?”

“Because I was afraid,” I admit.

My eyes go wide. I stare at him. He’s very calm.

He says, “If she loves you, I imagine she’ll forgive you.”

“Loves me?” I laugh callously. “We weren’t together long enough for that. The damn—war—got in the way. Fucking Dark Lord kept trying to kill her, and everything, and God it was a mess.”

Dad has the strangest look on his face. I realize I’ve gone past being cryptic. I’m just glad I didn’t mention my girlfriend’s lovely lightening bolt scar.

“Not the funny blonde girl who was locked in our cellar?” he asks abruptly.

“No.”

“Not—that—Granger person—”

“No!”

Dad seems to slump in relief. He looks over his shoulder at some pompous official in black robes, who seems to be leaning in our direction.

“Son,” he says softly, eyeing this man like he’s made of mud.

“Dad, I’ll be fine. It’s just something I have to get over.”

“I’m worried about you,” he says, almost too quietly to hear, for the man in black has walked over with his hands spread wide. I realize he’s a former Death Eater, whose name I don’t recall, who never laid an Unforgivable on anyone but who Dad probably doesn’t want to associate with if he wants to be accepted into proper society again. Still, he’s gracious as the man leads him away, only looking uncomfortable because I’m left behind leaning on the railing, trying very hard to keep my mouth closed and my insides contained.

 

 

***

 

Early in January, I’m startled awake. My father is in my bedroom, making a ruckus: pulling open drawers, throwing balled-up socks, rattling the stationary on the desk, tossing my broomstick across the bed, and generally wreaking havoc on my belongings. It’s strange because I don’t think he’s been in my bedroom since I was 14 and he caught me trying to sneak Pansy in for the night.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” I stammer.

He drops a piece of parchment into my lap, and says, “Congratulations, you’re cured.”

Still half asleep, the words take a moment to form on the page.

 

 

> Dear Mr Malfoy,
> 
> We are pleased to hear your long bout of owl flu has finally cleared up. It is fortunate you have been keeping up with your studies privately in the meantime. We are pleased to offer you late admission into the Eighth Year Programme at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You will find your list of required texts and materials enclosed.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Deputy Headmaster  
>  _Severus Snape_

“No,” I say, my eyes opening wide. My father throws some clean trousers onto my head, and I say, muffled, “What! Dad, I can’t!”

“You will.”

“But—” I pull the trousers off. “What are you thinking? I don’t even know what I’d say—”

“Draco,” he says, standing up straight with a fistful of my underwear, “you’re forbidden to live in this house until June, so you’ll want to get out of bed and make it to King’s Cross within the hour, if you don’t want to find yourself homeless.”

I look at the clock. 9:55 AM. I look back at Dad. He’s chucking clothes at random into my open school trunk.

“Well, shit.” I scramble out of bed, pull on my trousers and the first shirt I see, eyeing the wadded up _Daily Prophet_ still lying in the corner of the room. I can see the frames of Potter’s glasses and a smudge of green. Would those eyes be there on the platform to greet me? To smile at me? To hate me? “Merlin, but I need a—”

A house-elf appears with scissors and a comb.

Dad points me to my desk chair. The elf stands on a pile of books, snipping, while I shake my leg and think of what to say when I see Potter again. _So, how’s it hanging?_

No! Anythingbut that!

Before long, Dad realizes what he’s doing and summons another elf to finish packing. He’s thought of everything, it seems, because even my schoolbooks are shoved into the bottom of my trunk by the time we set out. He’s had a portkey arranged. We walk to the edge of the grounds, past the white peacocks, past the self-swinging gates, to a lone horseshoe that’s sunken into the snow-packed road. I put it in my pocket and hold my hand there while we wait.

Dad frowns, suddenly intense. “Shall we call this _Operation Mrs Malfoy_?”

My mouth falls open. I shake my head, unable to speak.

“Not as dire as that?” he asks, the frown softening. “Can’t say I’m not relieved. I’m not doing this to force a wife on you. Even a girlfriend. I’m doing it because I can’t stand to see you doing nothing when there’s still _something_ that can be done. You’re a fine young man, and after all you did for the war effort...and for me...you deserve happiness more than anyone. I’m proud of you, Draco.”

We embrace. The phrase “Operation Mrs Malfoy” has me thinking of my mother. I haven’t felt this close to my father in a long time, and I dearly wish she were here to see it. Moments before the portkey snatches me away, Dad still has a hand on the back of my neck.

“No matter what happens, she’d be lucky to have you.”

I smile at him. He means well. What he doesn’t know is that statement would be more accurate in reverse.

 

 

***

 

Potter doesn’t usually leave Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays. Still, I can’t help searching for him on Platform 9 ¾. It’s no use. Not even Weasley and Granger present themselves. I’m so busy gawking at non-existent people that I don’t notice Pansy flying at me.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back?” she cries. I think she’s going to hug me. I put my arms out, but she begins smacking me in the chest with something brown and furry.

I shield my head. “Pansy, stop—I didn’t know—until this morning—”

She hits me one last time, but there is no passion in it.

“I’m glad you didn’t fight on the battlefield,” I say, brushing hair off my robes, “if your weapon of choice is a baby otter.”

Pansy looks at the fur. “It’s a mink muff.”

She won’t look me in the eye now, simply hiding behind a sheet of dark glossy hair, so I imagine the ball is in my court.

“Pansy. Are we okay?”

She raises her eyes slowly. The coy act doesn’t suit her, so I’m relieved when she purses her lips and hits me with the muff again. I suppose that’s a _yes_ , for now.

We start through the crowd and towards the train.

“Well, since you like to wear the carcasses of adorable animals, I probably shouldn’t give you these,” I say.

Pansy looks behind me. There are two cages on top of my floating trunk, the golden one that houses my owl and a smaller one that houses the two baby kneazles. She makes a noise that may well have deafened me up close. She puts both kneazles in her lap the moment we find a compartment. I suppose I’ve starved them for attention, because they purr and rub their puffy yellow heads on her bosom and narrow their eyes at me the whole ride to Hogwarts.

“What are you going to name them, then?” I ask, putting my feet up next to Pansy. The closest kneazle hisses and bats me away. “Fuck!”

“I don’t know,” she says, rewarding the mangy thing with an ear-scratch. “I only need one name, though. What do you think about Gershwin?”

“You’re not keeping both?” I ask, slumping.

“No. Kneazles are more work than a normal cat.”

“But I don’t want another pet. Diablo is needy enough as it is.” There is a hoot. I glance up and find my owl looking as sinister as his namesake. “Crabbe? Do you want one?”

Crabbe has crammed himself against the door. His head is poking out into the train corridor. He pops back in, red and watery in the eyes, and says, “Can’t, allergic,” and pops back out again.

“Goyle?”

He grunts, examines a kneazle, and shakes his head. He’d probably forget he had it and sit on it, anyway.

In the moonlight, Hogwarts is taller and whiter than I’ve ever seen it. They must have added new towers since the war, certainly a new Astronomy Tower, which I remember watching crumble in a battle that took the lives of several Order members and Death Eaters. I take the sight as a good omen, a symbol of starting anew.

Pansy and Crabbe are chattering beside me as we emerge from the carriages. Smaller students are skipping by, pushing the doors open. I have no idea why they’re excited to be back at school. But I know why I am. Potter’s somewhere in here. I’m searching around as soon as I walk into the entrance hall. My friends are trudging into the dungeons, but I linger, pretending to check my trunk for one thing or another while students shout greetings to their friends who are filing down to the Great Hall for supper. I know it’s stupid. He’s probably in Gryffindor Tower warm by the fire, too busy slouching over a Quidditch magazine to bother with eating, like he used to do, way back when we spent our days together in my dormitory....

No. He’s at the top of the stairs.

He’s looking right at me.

Christ. I don’t have a speech prepared.

His eyes are wide, at first concerned and then narrowing in suppressed joy. His mouth strains up in a closed smile. His teeth begin to show, his chest swells, and then he’s hurtling down the stairs.

I’m frozen. He’s beautiful. His eyes, his nose, his mouth, the joy emanating from his very skin. All of that’s for me. Fuck, what do I say?

I simply smile.

And he leaps past me and into another man’s arms.

I stagger back, tripping over my trunk, catching myself on Diablo’s cage.

“Are you all right?” Potter is saying, touching the man’s cheeks. “I thought half your face would be hanging off!”

“I told you he barely scraped me. Longhorns are fickle like that. Look, barely a scar.” The man touches his cheek, trails the finger down his neck, and I’m left with the impression he is smugly showing off the scar, not trying to comfort Potter. It seems to do the trick. Potter bites his lip and leans in to give the man a lingering kiss.

Struck silent, barely able to breathe, confused and deeply humbled, I make for the dungeons.

A low voice stops me.

“All right, Malfoy?”

I stop.

It’s Ron Weasley. He’s come down the stairs with Granger in tow. For some reason, she looks tense. For some reason, he looks cordial. He sticks out a freckled hand. We shake, but I can’t look him in the eye. I see only Potter over his shoulder shifting awkwardly, looking at his shoes, with both arms still clutching the other bloke’s chest. He seems to have noticed his surroundings after Weasley said my name.

“Welcome back,” Weasley is saying. “Read about what you did in the paper—defending your dad on the battlefield, working with Dumbledore, feeding Shacklebolt information. I didn’t believe it at first—you know, the spy thing—but I’m glad you proved me wrong. Well done, mate.”

How very odd. His eyes are shining with genuine affection. I straighten up, force myself to nod politely, and try to slink away.

That’s when I notice the man Potter is hugging has the same eyes as Weasley. Same freckled nose, too. And, of course, there’s that hair. It’s Ron Weasley’s older brother—Chucky, or whatever. He’s not looking at me the way Ron is. He’s looking with unabashed suspicion. His burly arm is tight, almost possessive, around Potter’s shoulders. But why is he at Hogwarts to begin with? He’s like 30 or 40 years old. He leans down, whispers something into Potter’s ear, which goes pink, along with his cheeks. Potter tries not to smile. He fails.

I want blood.

“You all right?” the younger Weasley is asking.

My eyes snap towards him. I realize I need an excuse for having lingered so long. There is a mewl behind me. I spin around, grabbing the kneazle cage. “Er, wanted to ask Granger if she wanted this. Got it for Christmas, but don’t care for the things.” I thrust it at her. “I know you like them.”

“Oh,” she says, her tenseness melting. She sticks her finger between the slats of the cage to tickle the kneazle’s chin. “He’s a really cute, Malfoy. I love golden kneazles, but I already have Crookshanks. He’d get jealous.”

“Ah. Right.”

“Thanks, anyway,” Weasley says, slapping me on the shoulder.

I practically run to the dungeons. My luggage beats the floor and scrapes the walls. I’m painfully aware that my magic hasn’t been this wild since my mother died.


	2. Chapter 2

 

It’s breakfast, first day of the Spring term, and my Housemates are too wrapped up in their own blathering to notice me glaring at the head table.

“Er, Malfoy.”

Charlie Weasley is over there. That’s his name. Charlie. Stupid name for a stupid meathead.

“Hey, hey, Malfoy—”

Muscles are all that bugger has to offer Potter. That’s for certain. No way Potter thinks Charlie’s as clever as me, nor as interesting, nor as handsome. And he’s certainly not as good in bed. But I refuse to think about them in bed, so I go back to thinking about how _stupid_ Charlie is. Look at him over there. Eating sausage, all stupid. That’s why he’s got to work a lowly job—not even as a groundskeeper! An _assistant_ to a groundskeeper! Ha! _Ha!_

“Malfoy, _what the fuck_?”

I turn to Zabini. When my focus on Charlie breaks, everyone’s breakfast plate crashes to the table with a great clamour. My housemates are staring at me, many of them dripping with porridge and pumpkin juice. I guess I’m emotional. Snape has shot up at the head table, raising an accusing eyebrow, and I look away, muttering, “Sorry” to no one in particular and resume glaring.

“Draco?” It’s Crabbe. “Draco, you seemed like you were in a good mood on the train. Did something happen? Was it something I did? I’m sorry I’m allergic to the kneazle, but it’s living in our dorm, so it’s kind of like I own it. I don’t even mind that I have to breathe out of my mouth.”

“What?” I look at him. He’s blinking, and he actually is stupid, but at least I like him. “I’m fine, Crabbe. It’s not you.”

“Oh. See, I told you,” he says to Goyle.

Post arrives. Diablo drops a letter for me and plucks Zabini’s toast out of his hand as he leaves. Zabini shoots me a look. I take no notice. I’m smiling bitterly. The letter has only one line:

  
_Well? —Dad_

I scrawl a reply on the back: _Someone else got to her first_. My brow furrows. That makes me look weak. I scribble it out and write, _There will be death at Hogwarts_. That’s no good either. If it’s intercepted, there’s no way Dad will get a job at the Ministry. Despite my rumoured heroics, our family reputation is tenuous. I banish the parchment.

After breakfast, Pansy is making doleful eyes at me in the entrance hall, where the doors open up to a frigid day. “Can’t believe you’re taking Care of Magical Creatures,” she says. She points her nose towards Hagrid’s sad little hut, which has smoke puffing out of the chimney. “Have you gone mental?”

I shrug, cross I’m here at all. “Dad might be getting a post in magical creature trade, so if the family business is leaning that way I may as well, too.”

“Oh. So it’s not Astoria Greengrass?”

I am genuinely confused and lift an eyebrow to show her.

She crosses her arms, flips her hair to one side. “Heard a rumour she liked you. I know she’s in that class, so I wondered....”

“Pansy, knock it off. I don’t even know her. And isn’t she a year or two below us?”

“Yeah, but all the upper-level classes are mixed up, since so many people missed last year.” She says _people_ like she really means to say _scum_ , eyeballing a couple Muggle-borns who are meandering by.

“Well, same story. I don’t know that girl. It’s just business.”

“All right,” she says, visibly relaxing, “but you still have to put up with that crippled oaf, Hagrid.”

“Crippled?”

“He got hexed in the leg during the war, and McGonagall’s still keeping him on. Can you believe it? That’s why that Neanderthal-looking Weasley brother is here. To assist with his class, I guess. He’s a dragon trainer. Didn’t you know?”

Honestly, no. I’d been too busy pelting him with imaginary jinxes to ask why he sat at the professor’s table (Nose Falls Off Jinx, Arms Fall Off Jinx. I’ll keep the third appendage to myself, though I’d rather like it to fall off, too). I thought Weasley was just an assistant groundskeeper, no better than a janitor. But an assistant _professor_?

At that moment, Potter, Weasley, and Granger shuffle past us and out the great doors. The latter two make polite eye contact with me. Potter is polite, too, in that ignoring-me-completely way. When they make for Hagrid’s hut, two things stir in me. The first, a fiery plume of anger at the thought of having to be in a class where the primary entertainment will be watching Potter make eyes at a strapping dragon trainer. The second, a cooling eureka moment: this might not be bad luck. This might be an opportunity. If there was anything my father taught me growing up (and there were a bloody load of things), it was that you had to get to know your enemy in order to destroy them. I’d already wasted 12 hours sulking, brooding, and imagining freckly body parts crumbling into dust. No more. My slightly abrasive but well-meaning father had jostled me out of bed and onto the Hogwarts Express for one purpose: get Potter back. Not that he knew that specification, but still. Still! I could use this class to observe Weasley, observe his interactions with Potter, learn the man’s weaknesses, stick a target on his back, and blast him right back to the Weasel Hole, or whatever that family's abode is called. My heart is pounding just thinking about it. I set off at once.

“Well, have a nice day to you, too,” Pansy calls behind me.

I don’t put much faith into that sentiment, as I track through the snow and into the humming outline of a transparent bubble on the side of Hagrid’s hut, a bubble I assume has been spelled there to deflect cold weather during the class period. I enter it. I’m shocked by the change. It’s downright tropical in here. There is dewy grass, no snow. I shuck my scarf, my robes, and roll up my sleeves, noting that Potter is milling around on the far end of the bubble with the rest of the class. Charlie Weasley is nowhere to be seen.

The students are peering into large barrels which are set several feet apart. When I walk up to inspect one it becomes clear what the bubble is for. We are studying African Shrakes. If my memory serves me, they require warm waters and lots of seaweed and shellfish to survive.

“Whose bright idea was it to have this unit during the winter?” I mutter.

“One guess,” someone drawls. It’s Zabini, walking up behind me, already perspiring. “He’s only half a giant, but manages to have the full intellect of one. Which isn’t saying much.”

Granger is nearby. She shoots me a look of subtle disappointment, as though any goodwill I’d garnered offering her the kneazle were dissolving in front of her eyes. Before I can say anything to appease her, because I certainly don’t want Potter’s friends associating me with such commentary, the half-giant himself emerges from his hut. Pansy was right: he has a cane and a limp and shakes the ground with each strained hop of his good leg.

“May ‘ave fergotten to keep their water warm over the holiday,” he says, making his way down the steps, “but now they’re defrosted an’ looking right happy!”

“Hagrid, ours is floating,” Weasley says, elbowing Potter in the ribs. They are trying not to smile.

“Oh, tha’s all right. He’s just takin’ a wee nap. Er.” Hagrid peers into the barrel, clears his throat, and waves a giant hand. “Well, he’ll snap out of it. Everyone grab yer partners. We’re going ter practice the detangling technique we talked abou’ before Christmas.” He explains that the primary nuisance this fish causes is tangling itself into fishermen’s nets when it feels threatened, both mucking up the fisherman’s haul and amusing itself. If you simply grab the fish to yank it out, it will bite you—if it doesn’t burst out with barbs and skewer you. At the end of the speech, Hagrid notices me. “Oh, hello Malfoy!”

I am caught off guard, having been staring at the edges of Potter’s mouth as he smiled, and now Potter is looking at me. Several people are. It takes me a moment to realize why Hagrid is bothering to address me; he took a liking to me at Potter’s 17th birthday party when I gifted him the inscription on the Golden Snitch. Of course, I don’t care one way or another for Hagrid, but with Potter looking at me—rather, past my shoulder at the dog on Hagrid’s doorstep—I’ve got to make myself look good.

I incline my head. “Hello, Hagrid. It’s wonderful to see you up and about.”

Hagrid beams.

Potter’s eyes meet mine.

I’m blasted with the same feeling that overcame me the last time our eyes met.

It was in an alcove on the side of the castle, right after the Battle of Hogwarts, when I reached for him, bursting with joy that we were both alive, that _he_ was alive and right there for my arms to cradle. Before that, I’d last stared into his eyes on the floor of Ron Weasley’s bedroom, when I clutched him the entire night, not knowing when I’d see him again, wanting so badly to whisk him away to Quebec where we’d be safe, where we’d be happy, and where no Dark Lords could touch us. And before that: in my dormitory, the last morning of sixth year, before we got on the Hogwarts Express, destined for our lives never to be the same again, when I lay between his legs, growing soft inside his warmth, his wetness, and wondered if I would ever want to lay with anyone else. At the time, I hadn’t.

It is a fluttering, all-consuming feeling looking into Potter’s eyes. And it’s no different than before. It’s really no different.

It’s over in a flash. He looks at his shoes, and I’m left cold and alone even though he’s only feet away.

The class groans as Hagrid tosses nets into all the barrels.

“Remember, one partner distracts the Shrake, nice an’ gentle like in the water, while the other partner untangles the net from the barbs. Careful now, they’ll bite if they feel bothered. Well done, ‘Ermione and Padma.”

Zabini is paired up with a pretty Slytherin girl, grinning at me like a cad. Terry Boot is paired with Hannah Abbott, but I know neither of them likes me, anyway. All the students are paired up except me. Ron Weasley notices and waves.

“Oy, Malfoy! Come be our third! Our Shrake is pretty, erm, frisky,” he says, indicating the floating fish. He snickers to Potter, but Potter is not reciprocating. He is round-eyed, like a doe. I do not mind being his predator. As soon as I step forward, there is a hand on my shoulder.

“Nah, Ron, partners only,” Charlie calls out. He looks at me pointedly. “I’ll help you, Malfoy.”

Before I can respond, he’s walking to the remaining barrel, which sits near Granger and Patil at the edge of the weather barrier. He makes a pleasant, expectant face at me. Hm. I know he was glowering at me yesterday, but perhaps I misinterpreted the reason. Perhaps he’s just prejudiced towards Slytherins or had something in his eye. I’m prepared to play nice with him while I look for his weaknesses, and it seems I’ve already found one: he doesn’t know he’s dating what’s mine.

Charlie is already trailing his hand in the water, distracting our Shrake. I take the net, gingerly detangling the fish’s teeth and barbs. It is large, grey, slimy, and I’m already considering dropping this god-awful class. That’s when Charlie puts his free hand on the barrel’s edge, leans heavily, and says, “What do you think you’re doing?”

I’m startled. “Excuse me?”

“People don’t just come back to Hogwarts in the middle of the school year. You had to pull some serious strings to make this happen, and I find it suspicious as Hell.”

Well, then.

“My father pulled the strings. Lucky me.”

He cocks his head. “But why are you lucky? What business do you have here? Because I don’t believe for a second you’re in it for the education.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“I think it is. I asked Hagrid, and he said you haven’t been enrolled in this class in three years.” Charlie looks over his shoulder at Potter and Weasley, who are amusing themselves examining the oysters in the bottom of their barrel, and then he turns back to me with his eyebrows low. “Are you trying to get at him?”

Oh, this is too good.

“At whom?” I drawl.

“Stop playing stupid, Malfoy.”

His voice has picked up. Granger raises a questioning eyebrow. Charlie winks at her, and she turns back to her fish. He looks at me, letting out a huff of air. It’s rather dragonish, actually. And there’s fire in his eyes. All it does is light a thrill of adrenaline my veins. I push my sleeves up and lean forward on the barrel, as well.

“Scared of a challenge, Weasley?”

I do not expect him to start chuckling.

“Challenge? No, no, Malfoy. You’ve got me wrong. You’re not a threat to me. It’s _his_ welfare I’m concerned about.” His eyes, alight with mockery, begin to harden. “He was bloody messed up after the war, and when you dropped him without a word on the backside it didn’t help the situation. He’s finally over it all and _happy_ , so I don’t want you messing that up. That’s all I have to say on the subject. Got it? Switch.”

I am still digesting his gall and the fact that he knows so much about my relationship with Potter, so I follow his instructions mindlessly, thrusting the net at him and practicing my hand at distracting the Shrake. I am waving gentle patterns in the water, making the fish’s eyes droop in transfixion, when I break into a slow smile.

“What do you think I intend to do?”

Charlie snorts. “I don’t know you very well, but I know your history with Harry. I know you get a laugh out of fucking with him for the sake of it. Ron told me all the stories when he was younger. So just—give it up. Whatever it is? All right?”

I continue to smile because it seems to put him on edge. He’s mucking up the barbs now, probably hurting the Shrake in his distraction, and it amuses me very much. There’s a bit of blood in the water.

I laugh, low and taunting. “Thought you were supposed to be good with animals.”

“Shit,” he hisses, taking out his wand and casting a healing charm on the Shrake. The blood stops, just in time because the Shrake was starting to thrash. Charlie heaves a sigh and returns to the net.

We work in silence for several minutes, until I can’t resist asking, “And if I _don’t_ give it up?”

His eyes flick up, almost disbelieving. “You’d just better.”

“Don’t know why I’m asking you. He’ll make the right choice without my influence.”

I realize I’ve exposed my intention. No point in hiding it, though. Charlie seems cleverer than I gave him credit for.

His eyes are calm looking into mine, but his voice has dropped to a dark register. “He already has. I should wonder why I’m talking to _you_. Not as if he’s ever said a good word about you. Why he even bothered with you for as long as he did, I’ll never know.”

Somehow this shakes my focus. “ _Never said a good—_?” I stop myself, gritting my teeth. “You’re bluffing.”

“Why would I bluff?” He grins, patting me on the chest. “Like I said, I’m not threatened by you, lad.”

Lad?

Any attempts of mine to play nice are wearing thin, probably evaporating into the hot air like the wet spot Weasley’s hand left on my shirt. It doesn’t help that when he returns to the fish, he gets a cheeky look and says, “Besides, how could I be threatened by you when I’m the one he goes to bed with at night?”

Yeah, I’ve had it with him.

I thump the Shrake hard on the nose and whip my hands out of the water. It flails. Its barbs spring out and its teeth gnash, immediately finding Weasley’s flesh in the water.

“Son of a bitch!” he cries, flinging out his hand, sending the fish flying over the students’ heads, where it lands in Zabini’s barrel with a great splash. Charlie clutches his shredded hand to his chest, eyes wide with outrage.

I smirk. “Whoops, accident.”

He charges me. He’s so fast that by the time I draw my wand he’s got me by the shirt. There is shouting. I don’t know who. Perhaps many people. All I know are the blacks of Weasley’s eyes as he squeezes my collar around my throat, jerking me up. He’s a good inch shorter than me, but he’s burly and tough, and I can hardly breathe.

“Go on,” I wheeze out. “Pound me in the face. Just like I used to pound your boyfriend every night.”

The red in his cheeks deepens, but otherwise he doesn’t react, simply holding onto me, backing me out of the warm weather bubble and into the snow, as if he’s trying to talk himself out of something.

Granger appears. “Charlie, stop, you’ll lose your job!”

“Oy, let go!” Ron Weasley is insisting. I feel his hands on me, trying to pry his brother’s off my shirt. “Charlie, he’s not fighting back. Whatever it is, it’s not worth it!”

“Please, let him go,” someone says. The voice cuts my focus. It’s Potter, looking calmly at Charlie.

Charlie’s grip relaxes. He shoves me away as an afterthought, leaving a bright red stain on my shirt. Potter reaches for him immediately, examining his wound, and I fight a surge of jealousy like I’ve never felt. _I_ was the one being manhandled! _I_ was the one attacked! And he comforts _Weasley_? Big-man, dragon-trainer _Weasley_?

“All right, Charlie?” Hagrid is saying, as he pushes through the onlookers. It’s clear he’s asking Charlie both whether he’s all right and what the Hell he was thinking grabbing a student.

Charlie flexes his bloody fist, sniffs, and says, “Must be tired is all. Think I’ll go take a nap before the next class. Harry, come with?”

He doesn’t quite look at me as he says this, but I can feel it directed at me. I am watching their retreating backs, feet growing numb in the snow, while the younger Weasley brother admonishes me in my periphery.

“What was that, Malfoy? I want to like you after all the decent things Harry’s said about you, but I can’t turn a blind eye to—”

I turn to him. “Potter’s said good things about me?”

“Er, yeah. Thought you two had a truce or something. That’s not the point, though. The point—”

“When?”

“I don’t know,” he says, starting to look very confused. “Does it matter?”

“Before or after the Battle of Hogwarts?”

He lifts his hands, shaking his head. “What the Hell? I don’t know. _Both_ , I reckon, but—”

“I knew it! I fucking knew it.” I turn to Granger. “Do you have a quill and parchment?”

Granger does not appear as befuddled as her counterpart. We return to the warm weather bubble, where she digs in her bag, produces the items in question, and thins her lips as she hands them to me.

 _Dad_ , I write, grinning, almost laughing to myself. _Don’t take this literally: Operation Mrs Malfoy is officially a go_. _PS: What do you know about breaking people up?_

 

 

 

***

 

I’m expecting my father to owl me back with master plans, but a week has passed and there is no word from him. I choose to take it as a sign of his confidence in me, not disapproval, or worse—disappointment that I can’t catch the eye of a silly schoolgirl by myself.

And I can’t catch her eye. _His eye_ , damn it. I’ve tried to corner Potter several times this week, and each instance I’m met with the back of his retreating head and his truly biteable arse. He prefers fitted Muggle clothes now, quite possibly a reaction to no longer having a feminine form to hide, and whether it’s denim trousers, or a wool jacket, or that blue jumper that hugs his waist just so—well, if I wasn’t smitten before, I’d be headed that way fast now. I still don’t know what that says about my sexuality. I don’t care to analyse it.

His friends are always hanging around, too. As amiable as Weasley is being towards me, Granger is not. She’s always spotting me over Potter’s shoulder, muttering something about the library, and steering them away. Bitch probably suspects something. She always seems to.

It’s breakfast. I’m staring at my cereal, not at all looking forward to spending another two hours in class being ignored by Potter and shoulder-checked by his troll of a boyfriend. It doesn’t help that their relationship is a hot topic of conversation this term, even in Slytherin House. I don’t know what’s got everyone so intrigued. Perhaps they’re just bored now that there’s no Dark Lord to simper after.

Zabini is gesturing with his fork. “I mean, if I starting ploughing the Arithmancy professor, would McGonagall be okay with that?”

I don’t know the girl who responds. I’ve seen her around. All I know is she’s a brunette and has a nice full mouth.

“If you started ploughing the Arithmancy professor,” she says, “McGonagall would probably bow and submit her allegiance to you because you’d be working off some unstoppable Dark magic.”

Pansy leans on the girl and turns red with laughter. Zabini is going red, too, which is really a feat for him.

“My point is,” he says, nose high, “isn’t there a rule against student and professor relations?”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “The rule is—and I’ve looked, because I can’t stand Potter—students and professors can’t engage in romantic or sexual activities _on_ Hogwarts grounds. Seems Weasley’s tent gets them around that one.”

“Tent?” I grunt.

They look at me like they’ve just noticed my presence.

“Weasley doesn’t live in the castle,” Pansy informs me. “He lives in some kind of tent in the Forbidden Forest. He claims it’s because he’s a hunter and wants to be immersed in the natural world, or some rubbish, but I imagine he’s just using it as a place to bugger that nancy boy Potter. Pervert.”

She says this none too discreetly. Half the table is laughing. I find myself slouching in my seat for fear her voice will carry across the hall to where Potter and his friends are chattering.

“If he’s smart, he’s using it to bugger more than _Potter_ ,” Zabini says, pouring himself some coffee.

The girl with the mouth nods. “Daphne did say she thought Weasley was checking out her bum once. But Daphne’s really into herself. Probably thinks Dumbledore used to check out her bum, too.”

“She _wants_ people to think that,” Pansy says, twirling her hair and looking around innocently. “There’s a reason why people call her Easy Daphne.”

The girl with the mouth is suppressing a laugh. Meanwhile, Zabini is trying to look mysterious as he stares at her over the rim of his mug.

“That’s what I’d do if I were him, just have my pick. So many fine women at Hogwarts.”

I whip towards him in realization.

He jumps, spilling coffee on his trousers. “Damn it, Malfoy!”

“Is Weasley not...you know...?” I ask.

“A poofter?” says Pansy, throwing a snide look at Charlie at the head table. “From what I heard, he’s equal opportunity.”

“Disappointed, Malfoy?” Zabini asks flatly, as he towels himself off.

“Just curious.”

The girl with the mouth smirks. “ _Curious_ , are you?”

She and Pansy lean on each other again, laughing like hyenas.

I don’t hide my displeasure, hunching over my meal to glower at her. “Who _are_ you?”

Pansy looks thrilled at my question. The other girl shakes her head in disbelief.

“Really, Malfoy? We’re in Care of Magical Creatures together. _And_ our mothers were talking about betrothing us before your mum...well, you know.”

“Thanks, I don’t need to be reminded,” I snap. She holds my gaze. “Greengrass?”

“My, you’re as brilliant as they say. What a husband you would have made.” She stands up, her ponytail swinging jauntily. “Now, if you could tell me apart from my sister, I’d be really impressed. See you all at lunch.”

She leaves. I can’t believe I’m so preoccupied that I can’t even recognize the daughter of a pureblood family even older than mine. Meanwhile, Zabini is telling me, “Smooth, Malfoy!” and Pansy is turning pink in the face because I’m hurrying after Greengrass. I think this girl with the mouth—and now I mean that both physically and figuratively—could be of use to me.

“You seem to know a lot about Potter and Weasley,” I say, catching up to her in the entrance hall. She is lingering to avoid a snow flurry.

“Know about as much as any Slytherin girl. There’s not a lot of drama going on in the dungeons, is there? Everyone’s on their best behaviour since the war. But Potter and Weasley? They’re easy entertainment. Plus, there’s something about two blokes in love that’s really cute, if you ask me.”

I ignore the ‘in love’ bit. “But you acted like you were disgusted by them.”

“That’s Pansy’s slant. I indulge the poor beast. But I don’t care. And I don’t blame Potter. Weasley is a fit piece of arse. And rumour has it, the front is nothing to scoff at either.”

Not an ideal image. I’m probably visibly ruffled, but cannot help asking, “Who on Earth is _starting_ these rumours?”

“That’s the point of a rumour, isn’t it? Nobody knows.”

She tightens her scarf around her neck, glances outside, and decides to stay a bit longer. Other students are trickling out the hall, grumbling and slogging to class, so I step closer to her and lower my voice so they don’t overhear.

“Look, you find Weasley attractive. And you seem to be a clever girl, and a pretty girl, who likes a bit of fun—”

“If not for that first sentence, I’d think you were flirting with me, Malfoy.”

“If not for the reasons I’m about to ask you this question, Miss Greengrass, I’d have no qualms against doing that.”

“Intriguing.” Her mouth pokes out in thought. “What’s the question?”

No use beating around the bush: “Will you try to get into Charlie Weasley’s pants?”

Her cheeks go pink, but not with embarrassment. She’s laughing silently, her eyes sparkling. At last she burst out, “Why?”

“None of your concern. Will you do it?”

“What’s in it for me?”

So, the Slytherin comes out. I incline my head, feigning deep thought. “Well...you’re aware of my family's assets....”

“And you’re aware of _my_ family's assets—now that you know who my family is, dolt. I don’t need money. Something else.”

“What do you want?”

“A kneazle. Specifically, Pansy’s.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “You just said you had money. Just go buy a damn—”

“No. _Pansy’s_ kneazle is cute. It’s always doing somersaults and meowing the songs you teach it. I want that one.”

“You want me to pluck the kneazle out of Pansy’s arms and give it to you?”

She nods seriously.

I’m starting to wonder if it’s women I don’t understand or just Slytherin women. I can’t take Pansy’s stupid cat and give it to this girl; she’s already mad with jealousy.

I snap my fingers. “You’re in luck. Her kneazle has an identical twin, who’s just as clever.” _And deserving of death,_ I think, remembering how he pounced on my head just last night, rousing me out of gloriously wet Potter fantasy. “And he lives in my dorm. You can have him.”

She looks about to burst. “Really!”

“Yes, but only after you—”

She hugs me. It wouldn’t be awkward, except Pansy chooses that moment to stroll out of the Great Hall with Zabini. They both look scandalized, though I imagine for opposite reasons.

“All right, all right,” I say, holding the girl at arm’s length. “Deal, Miss Greengrass? Kneazle for an affair?”

She runs her tongue over her teeth. I think she’s toying with me now. “Tell me my first name, and we have a deal.”

Pansy is storming down into the basement for Charms. I remember her words the first day of class. _Is it Astoria Greengrass?_

I lower my mouth to her ear. “You underestimate me, Astoria.”

She snickers, and we shake hands. We follow Zabini’s path to Hagrid’s hut, through snow and wind, and in the distance I can see Potter and his friends already taking off their winter robes in the warmth bubble.

“And nothing hush-hush,” I say to Astoria. “I want a full-blown public affair. If someone could catch you in the act, that would be perfect.”

“It would be really motivating if you’d tell me _your_ motive.”

“Perhaps in time, but get the job done first.”

“No worries, Malfoy. I’ll see to it your evil scheme is fulfilled.”

“Great,” I say, as we enter the bubble. “You’re as easy as your sister.”

She squawks, flinging her bag at me. I’m already ducking away to remove my robes and toss them on the grass. The commotion attracts Potter’s eye, and he looks between us for a long moment. Curious. I take note of this for later.

“Have you really?” Astoria hisses, gripping my arm tight. “With Daphne?”

I haven’t. But pretty much every other Slytherin bloke has, or so they claim, so I put my hand over my heart, as if to relive a treasured memory, and let her assume what she wants.

 

 

 

***

 

I have one other class with Potter, Defence Against the Dark Arts. I don’t know why either of us is bothering. I spent two solid years with Snape in private Dark Arts tutoring and I could win a duel with this year’s nincompoop professor dancing backwards and blindfolded, and Potter...well, he’s Potter. Still, I’m grateful for the opportunity to be near him without Charlie hovering. Speaking of whom, it’s been a week since my chat with Astoria, and she still hasn’t made any advances towards the man. And it’s probably clear that I’m a spoiled child—so, I can’t take it anymore. After today’s DADA lesson, I catch up to Potter as he strides alone towards Gryffindor Tower.

He speaks without looking at me. “I don’t want to talk, Malfoy.”

“No? Not even about how your boyfriend threatened my life in Hagrid’s class? I figure at least one of you owes me an apology.”

“That was your own fault. You provoked him.”

“The way I remember it, Weasley did some heavy provoking.”

I’ve overtaken him, but he hasn’t stopped moving, so I’m left walking alongside him—my stride long and steady, his short and quick—and still failing to make eye contact.

“Come off it,” he says. “I know you well enough to guess that you said some things. Besides, Charlie told me as much.”

“He went and cried to you?”

“He wasn’t specific, just said you were being a prick. And that you bopped the fish on the nose. I can believe both.” He stops abruptly, lifting his chin. “What were you saying, then?”

I stick my hands into my pockets and make a noncommittal sound, pretending not to care. “Thought you didn’t want to talk.”

Potter doesn’t take the bait. He sighs, turns on his heel, and sets off again. Son of a bitch. I jog after him.

“All right, all right,” I say, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder. It’s slightly thicker, but really the same shoulder I’ve always touched. I want to pull him close. I don’t. It’s clear from his eyes I should not. They’re beautiful and fierce, but still closed to me. Instead, I say, “I don’t want to play games. I came back here for you.”

His eyes soften. Just as quick, he looks away. “I’m with Charlie.”

“Yeah, I gathered.”

“Then you need to leave me alone. It’s taken me a long time to...well, to get over you. And I don’t need you messing me around.”

I’m hissing before I can stop myself. “Why the fuck would I travel across Britain just to mess you around?”

Potter takes a step back. I curse my temper. He brings it out of me. He brings out all my strong emotions. There are students meandering around us. Over Potter’s shoulder, there is a corridor with an empty classroom, one of the places we used to meet to be intimate. I take a breath, nodding in that direction.

“Can I please talk to you? In private.”

He worries his lip. I take notice of the shadow of his clean shave. That’s new.

“No,” he says. “If you have something to say, you can say it out in the open.”

“Harry,” I urge him, stepping forward. He presses himself against the wall. “Why are you doing this? Are you afraid of me?”

“I’m with Charlie. I can’t be alone with you. All right?”

“Fine,” I snap. I’m practically heaving with frustration. “I’ll just say what I have to say, then. Leave him. Be with me.”

He cannot hold back a smile. “Is that all? Well, the answer’s no.”

“Why?”

“Because Charlie doesn’t have a problem with the thing _you_ have a problem with.”

“I’ve changed,” I say, standing tall. It’s true. I know it is.

“You’re gay now?”

“No,” I say slowly, so as not to appear disgusted. And I’m not disgusted. But I don’t want anyone thinking I’m a poof, either. “I am not. However. Think of what I said to you back then. That I like you for you. I realized that’s still true. The fact that you’re different now—down there. I mean. It doesn’t matter to me. I can deal with it.”

His mouth opens, and it’s not in joy like I’d hoped. “Thanks! You can _deal_ with me. Real compliment.”

“That’s not what I _meant_ , Potter.” I lurch forward, pinning him against the wall with my hands on either shoulder. His eyes are wide. My voice is frenzied, guttural. “I said it poorly. This is hard for me. Can’t you see that? I meant that I fucking miss you. I was wrong. Do you hear me? I’m admitting it to Hogwarts.” I throw my hands in the air, and look at two passing Hufflepuff girls. “I was wrong!”

They look at me like I’m nutters and scuttle away.

“I was a fool,” I say, turning back to him. “A frightened fool. It was just so different. I didn’t expect you to have a—” I look down. Back up at his eyes. “At least, not so soon.”

“And now you know I’m male, right?” he asks, searching my eyes. “For good.”

There’s a lump in my throat. “Yes.”

“And even though you’re straight, you’re okay with that?”

Truly, I don’t know. I don’t _fucking_ know. But, somehow, I desire him no less.

“Harry,” I say quietly, reaching out. I take his hand. God, it’s still soft. It’s still the hand I’m breathless to hold. “I’d be lucky to have you, male or female or in between. Please.”

I must look pathetic, looming over him in the corridor, eyes dilated like a kicked dog in front of gads of students; they likely can’t see me holding onto him, as my old-fashioned robes are so vast they hide our hands like stage curtains. Even if they _can_ see, so what? I need Potter to understand that I don’t care about anything but making this right.

His eyes flick over my shoulder. “People are staring.”

“Let them.”

“No,” he says weakly. He puts his hands on my chest, eases me away. “Draco, no. I can’t do this. I’m not leaving Charlie just because you took too long to change your mind.” He screws his face up, as if he’s holding in some tortuous emotion.

I see. I put myself out there, make myself vulnerable, and he swats me down like a common house fly. No use showing my anger. It will only drive him further away.

“Fine,” I say as calmly as I can fake. “Will you stop ignoring me, at least?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Er, you still want to talk to me? Even if we’re not together?”

“I thought I made it clear a long time ago. I’m not just in this for the sex.” I stick my hand out.

Slowly, he takes it. We shake. A smile spreads on his face. “Glad to hear it.”

It wasn’t a lie. I’m _not_ just in this for the sex. I’m in it for Harry—all of him. And I won’t stop until he’s mine.

 

 

 

***

 

I’m in my father’s wingback chair. Once again, I’m dreaming. Even as a child, I didn’t dare sit at his desk. Closest I got was perching on his knee. Now my legs are sprawled wide, each hand gripping a leather arm, the fire roaring behind me, my chin high as I take in the study like it belongs to me. Perhaps it does. I’m larger, uniformly robust, with thicker hands and a chest that expands more than usual as I draw in a breath; instead of Grandfather Abraxus, my father’s portrait hangs above the mantle. I’m aware he’s smirking, but I’m not looking at him.

“Come here,” I say quietly.

A figure is revealed to me. Across the room, on a chaise laden with black furs, Harry is on his hands and knees. He is nude. The fire is the only source of light. From this distance it licks tendrils of orange along the backs of his thighs, the curve of his arse, his shoulders, and the part of his face that is turned towards me. He is biting his lip like he has a secret. And he’s rocking. My eyes flick towards his arse. Between his legs, there is a black dildo. It is hovering in the air, fucking him gently.

When he doesn’t respond to my beckoning, I spread my legs more. My cock is in my hand, jutting out between the buttons of my robes. My thumb presses into the head, running gently along the wet crease, until I’m pulling the backside of my foreskin down. My whole hand follows, working slowly.

A silver necklace glitters down Harry’s chest and stomach, stopping at the bottom of his ribs. It is damasked with small viridian pearls and silver rings with diamond inlays, which shine both dark and bright, like his eyes. The whole chain swings as he rocks. Not that I’m looking at much more than his face.

“Do you like what I got you?” I whisper. He strokes the back of his hand down the chain, like it’s a pet, and begins to curl the strand around his finger. He is smiling with his eyes. “Why don’t you come show me? Come sit in my lap.”

I grip my cock. It bulges at the head, and Harry plays coy, looking away.

He wants something from me. It’s something simpler than jewels. He wants to be wooed.

“You’re so pretty,” I say. My breath hitches in realization. “Handsome, I mean. And strong. And brave. But still so lovely.”

He rises to his knees, and the chain cascades down his chest. I notice, for the first time, that he has no breasts. The dildo is still fucking him, pushing his arsecheeks up with each thrust. Dear Lord, I wish it were me.

“You’re even lovelier now than when I first saw you. That first night. Do you remember? You were small, and smooth, and so sexy on that desk. Oh, I wanted you. And now you’re more mature—ripe,” I say with closed teeth, pulling my cock harder. “You know exactly what you want, don’t you?”

His tongue slips out, pushes against his upper lip. His eyelids droop. It’s like he can taste me from there. He’s standing, sinking a foot into the black furs that drape off the chaise and down to the floor. The dildo has vanished, as things are wont to do in dreams. His lower body is draped in shadow, but his face and his chest where the diamonds and pearls glitter are bright with firelight as he slinks towards me, the lean muscles of his hips undulating. When he’s toe-to-toe with me, he stops. My hand has stopped, too. I think he will kneel and put his mouth on me, or straddle me and put me between his legs, or just kiss me. He does none of that. He grabs the necklace, wrenches on it, and the silver chain snaps.

Diamonds fall to the floor like raindrops. Pearls bounce, marbling around my shoes. All the while, Harry is smiling—like a vixen, or a devil, or both.

Enough wooing. He knows what he’s in for.

My hand shoots out, clasps around his neck. I’m standing and kissing him before he makes a sound. He sighs into my mouth, first slowly, then frantically, and then he’s whimpering in desperation. He touches my face, gentle like a lover. Too late for that after all the teasing he’s done.

I grip him between the arse cheeks. His hole is bare and silken, clenching beneath my fingers. My hand on his neck tightens. I spin him around, push his face into the surface of the desk, and undo my trousers against his backside. My dick is already out, yes, but I want him to gasp as my belt buckle clacks open, to lift his arse needily as my dick jumps along his crevice, to _anticipate_ my fucking.

I’m feeling him with my cockhead. Again, there are no genitals. The head slips over his doll-like flesh until it finds his arse. He cries out, spreading his legs for me. I slip in as easily as if it were a ready pussy, and I’m fucking him, wild, unaware of everything but Harry’s heat and the fact that I’m still dreaming: for he has never let me do this in reality. I don’t care. It’s good. It’s so good I close my eyes and swear I can feel him throbbing around me in real life. Half lucid, I think I’m jerking myself under the covers in my dorm. I hope I’m not loud. I hope my roommates don’t hear me saying his name. And what’s that noise? A _thump, thump, thump_ , like the fleshy part of a fist on wood. In my father’s study, I open my eyes. Nothing is thumping. It’s just Harry, bent over the desk, stomach flush with the wood, arse spread wide before my pelvis, soaking my robes with his wetness. Oh God! Oh God. _Thump, thump, thump_. What is that sound? No time to wonder. I’m coming so hard that I jolt myself awake with the force of it.

I’m in my bed in Slytherin. The sheets are slick. It’s silent, except for Crabbe and Goyle’s snoring.

My heart is pounding. Perhaps that was the source of the mysterious noise.

 

 

 

***

 

Astoria finally earns her kneazle. Or tries. We’re in Care of Magical Creatures, building flobberworm farms for the third years, and she’s leaning over her dirt mound in robes entirely too low cut for the winter asking Charlie what his Valentine’s Day plans are. At least, from my distance, I think that’s what she’s asking, as I try to read her lips.

Charlie gives her a half smile, flexing his arms behind his head, and says, ‘ _Haven’t decided_. _I’m pretty low-key about these things.’_

She twirls her hair. ‘ _Oh yeah? I’m pretty-low key, too. I like to stay in more than go out.’_

 _‘Yeah_ ,’ he says. ‘ _Not as though there’s a lot to do around here, anyway.’_

Astoria giggles, leaning farther over her dirt mound, and says something that makes Charlie’s neck go red.

 _That a girl_ , I think.

“Malfoy, come on,” Weasley is saying, straining against a wheelbarrow overflowing with soil. “Stop looking at Greengrass and help me push this.”

“Looking at—?” The other members of our group are staring at me, Granger with suspicion and Potter with a curious crook of the eyebrow. “She’s not really not my type, Weasley.”

“No? Whatever your type is, give us a hand.”

We tip the wheelbarrow into our trough and set about magicking tiny tunnels for the worms, which are apparently too lazy to dig for themselves. How did these creatures sneak around natural selection? Meanwhile, I’m peeved Potter is paying more attention to the flobberworms than to the busty brunette flirting with his boyfriend, but as long as he catches the bloke in his tent doing God-only-knows-what with her later, I’ll be satisfied.

“Draco?”

I look. It’s Potter. I can’t help speaking softly seeing him look at me expectantly for the first time in ages. “Yes?”

“I was asking if you wanted to join our study group? We study Defence on Tuesdays and Transfigurations on Thursdays—”

“Harry,” Granger says, elbows-deep in soil, “I don’t know if we’ll have enough room in the study group—”

“Sounds good,” I say. Potter smiles. When Weasley and Granger wander away to fetch flobberworm food, I add, “Won’t he mind?” nodding towards Charlie.

He shakes his head, amused. “He’s not jealous. He was just worried about you messing me around. I set him straight.”

“I see.” My mouth curls into a smirk, almost on its own accord. “So you’re not worried _other_ blokes being straight.”

“Shut up, prat.” He throws dirt at me.

“Oy! Hypocritical _and_ abusive,” I say, flicking some dirt back.

Potter gives me a look of mock-outrage, and suddenly we’re grabbing fistfuls of soil and flinging them on each other. I’ve forgotten we’re in the middle of class. I’ve forgotten everything but his sparkling eyes and melodic laughter and the fact that he’s touching my forearm more than is strictly necessary.

“Excuse me,” Granger says, hurrying back, “now we have to make the tunnels all over again!”

We calm down. My fingers are touching Potter’s beneath the soil. He doesn’t realize for a second, and pulls away, blushing. I’m pleased Charlie has glanced in our direction, and hasn’t stopped speaking with Astoria yet. This is all going smoother than expected.

 

 

 

***

 

“It’s not going well,” Astoria says, flopping next to me on the common room sofa one evening.

“What?” I shut my Potions book. I wasn’t reading it, anyway. “He was looking right down your robes. Good touch, by the way.”

“Thanks, but any man who likes breasts would look down my robes. You’re doing it right now.”

My eyes snap up. She’s smirking. Damn mouth. Damn boobs. “All right. What’s going wrong?”

“He’s loyal. He flirts for a bit, but then he diverts the subject. I think he’s really into Potter.”

I heave a sigh, staring into the fire. “Do you have a backup plan?”

“Well, I can’t very well molest the man, can I? I could get in trouble if I push too hard.”

“So, just be more obvious with your flirting. I know! Go to his tent and ask for help studying.” I take on a high, pseudo-female voice. “ _Oh, Mr Wealsey, this class is too hard and you’re sooo smart._ You know, that sort of thing.”

She looks at me like I’m nutters. “Blokes really like that transparent, ego-stroking nonsense?”

A memory from sixth year flashes in my head: I’m leaning against a bedpost in my dormitory and Potter is on his knees. The head of my cock slips out of his mouth long enough for him to marvel at how sexy he finds me, how deeply he wants me to fuck him, and how he just knows he’ll come the moment I’m buried inside his pussy. He rubs his cheek along my shaft, looks up at me with filthy, fuck-me eyes, and whispers, “But you’re so big, aren’t you? I don’t know if I can take the whole thing.” I throw my head back, feel my dick twitch in his hand, and shoot my load onto his neck and breasts.

I look at Astoria, and swallow audibly. “Oh, yeah.”

“All right,” she says, looking me up and down, suddenly sultry. “But you might owe me more than a kneazle for this.”

If I weren’t on a mission, I might take her up on it. “Get gone, little girl.”

She cackles, running out of the common room. I don’t get five minutes of peace with my homework before another girl appears. She sits, crosses her legs in a deliberately provocative fashion, and waits for me to acknowledge her.

“Yes, Pansy?”

“You lied to me.”

I’ve lied to a lot of people and can’t think of any specific incident she’s referring to, so I loll my head towards her and take in her unamused face.

“You said you weren’t interested in Astoria, but clearly you are. And now I’ve gone and made friends with her! This is really humiliating, Draco. Will you just be frank with me?”

“I’m _not_ interested in Astoria.”

“But you keep talking to her when just the other day you said you didn’t know her.”

“She’s doing me a favour, all right? Not even a favour, we have a business arrangement. Now, why don’t you _mind your own_ , and let me study?”

Pansy narrows her eyes, leaning against me possessively. Whatever. She’s silent now, so I hunker down to finishing my reading. She doesn’t speak to me for the next few days. Ironically, it’s Astoria herself who spares me from Pansy’s silent treatment.

One drizzling Monday, the _Daily Prophet_ subscriptions fly in, raining down on those of us interested in current events, and if I could see my father at breakfast this morning he’d be complaining again about the gossip that passes for news these days: Rita Skeeter has written the front-page article, and it’s starring Charlie Weasley, the sexual predator seeing not just Harry Potter but, apparently, cheating on him with innocent sixth year, Astoria Greengrass. There’s a photo of them at the Three Broomsticks. Charlie is lounging, his arm thrown across Potter’s chair, but unless you know the back of Potter’s head as well as me you wouldn’t know he’s turned away to talk to Seamus Finnegan; meanwhile, Charlie is blatantly looking down Astoria's shirt as she leans forward with her hand on his thigh.

Astoria is pressed against me at breakfast, rapt as I finish whispering the article to her. She narrows her eyes in mischievous delight. “I spilled butterbeer down my blouse, and asked him to check if the stain showed.”

“You brilliant tart.”

“My father’s going to kill me, though.”

“Worth it.”

She chucks toast at my head.

I lay the paper flat on the table to find Pansy smirking at us. “I knew you were like your sister,” she says.

“Judge yourself, Handsy Pansy. I know what you used to do with Draco behind the Herbology greenhouse.”

“Right, I’m off,” I announce, leaving them to gossip in my wake.

I scan the Hall as I leave. Potter and his boyfriend are nowhere in sight, which thrills me. They’re probably off in that tent having the blowout of the term. I’m even more elated when neither shows up to Care of Magical Creatures; and when Granger spends the period looking between Astoria and me like she’d enjoy knocking our heads together, I can’t help but grin back. Potter will be flinging himself into my arms by the end of the week.

Or far from it.

The next evening is the first of my study sessions with Potter and his friends. When I slouch into the library, trying my best not to appear expectant, I sit across from Potter and am shocked to find him looking not depressed, not concerned, but downright happy as he chatters with his friends. He sees me but doesn’t say hello, as Weasely is in the middle of saying, “—she’s a flirt, that one, and so’s my brother.”

“Yeah, well. We made up. And he’s not in trouble with McGonagall. It was just a misunderstanding.” Potter turns, greeting me like nothing is out of the ordinary. “So, what do you know about transfiguring candleholders into barstools?”

My voice is so flat I’m reminded of Snape. “Only that I’ll never need to do that in real life.”

“Oh, real life can surprise you sometimes, don’t you think?”

I don’t know if he’s flirting with me, but I’m too numb to care—defence mechanism against the ache in my heart. It doesn’t help that Granger chooses to lean on her fist and finish their conversation.

“You were gone all day yesterday, Harry. What happened after you and Charlie made up?”

“ _Hermione_ ,” he says, glancing at me with embarrassment, ”What do you think?”

“Oh.” She shuts up right quick.

“Right,” Weasley says, suddenly very interested in his textbook. “Transfigurations! Can’t get enough of this stuff….”

 

 

 

***

 

I’m laying on my back with my shoes on the footboard. My wand darts out of my hand, flying towards the bed canopy, jabbing a hole into the canvas. It floats down like a feather, and darts straight back up. Swamp-green light is sifting through the holes, castoff from the lake-view window behind my bed. When my vision comes into focus, I realize the holes in the canopy form the shape of a lightning bolt.

“How do you make your wand do magic...when you’re not even holding your wand?” asks Crabbe.

I curl onto my side, and say, “Mmph.”

“Oh, Draco?” someone sings.

It’s not Crabbe, but a voice like a delighted bird. Astoria.

I bolt up, furious, avoiding the envious eyes of my roommates, and meet her in the doorway. “What is it? And you’ve got to stop acting cosy with me, or people will get the impression we’re an item.”

“Oh, I doubt that, what with the rumours about me and Weasley. Especially given that you _asked_ me to start them.”

“Well, no one knows that. I can’t have it looking like we’re close, okay?”

“Oh? Does this have something to do with my assignment?” She’s doing that infuriating lip-pushing-out thing.

“Shut up. What do you want?”

“My _pay_.”

“You haven’t fulfilled your end of the deal,” I say patronisingly. “In case you haven’t heard, Potter and Weasley kissed and made up.”

“Excuse me! Our deal was a public affair for a kneazle. You made the mistake of not defining the term _affair_. I happen to think that an article in the _Daily Prophet_ fits the bill, especially since no one can verify whether I did or did not sleep with Charlie Weasley, including _you_. Therefore, I most certainly fulfilled my end of the deal. Now give me my pay, or I’ll tell Potter and Weasley you put me up to this.”

My fists are clenching. I whirl around. “Oy, hand over the cat. I promised it to Astoria.”

Crabbe is sitting at his desk, cuddling the damn thing. “But Draco—” He sneezes violently, wiping his nose on the kneazle. “He’s growd od be so buch....”

“Yeah, er.” I cast a Cleaning Charm and pluck up the kneazle by the neck, holding him away as he begins to hiss. I shove him at Astoria. “I’ll get you a bird, or something, Crabbe.”

“Oooh, okay.”

Astoria leaves, her ponytail swinging as she smiles over her shoulder. The kneazle seems to be smiling, too. “If I can help you with anything else, Draco, I’ll be needing a gold collar for my gold kitty. Won’t I, precious? Yes, I will!”

I slam the door and flounce onto my bed.

Now that the Astoria plan is ruined, I’m at a loss. Even humbling myself and _asking_ Potter to come back to me didn’t work, and I’m so embarrassed by that memory that I briefly consider fleeing back to Malfoy Manor to wallow in comfort, but I remember Dad’s promise: _You’re forbidden to live in this house until June_. I cross my arms, cursing him for his misguided attempts at helpfulness, uncaring that everyone’s books and quills are beginning to vibrate on the shelves.

There is knock on the door.

“Oy, Barmy,” Zabini says, “it’s your owl.”

The books stop vibrating. Diablo lands on my stomach, dropping a letter.

“What was so urgent it couldn’t wait till breakfast?” I ask.

The Malfoy crest is stamped in the sealing wax. I sit up to read.

 

> Draco,
> 
> The mission is on, is it? And you’ve got competition? No shame in that. She’s clearly a prize worth winning. I won’t be blunt about how I think you should woo this girl, but I will tell you this: Your mother and I didn’t start dating until she was jealous that I went after one of her close friends. She stopped seeing her then-beau, and never knew it was all apart of your father’s plan.
> 
> Best of luck,
> 
> Dad
> 
> PS: If my owls are taking longer, it’s because I’m traveling in North America negotiating trade laws. You might deduce, I got the job. As such, I won’t be home for the Easter holidays. Please stay at Hogwarts, so I know you’re safe.

 Once the torches are out, I stay up late thinking.

Dad and I are on the same page. I’ve been considering this tactic since I noticed Potter’s twinge of jealousy as he watched me interact with Astoria. But I can’t very use _her_ , as lied-to as Pansy would feel. There must be someone else. From Dad’s letter, it seems a close friend of Potter’s would be ideal. I think of Ron Weasley and his recent friendliness, and laugh at the image of me courting him. Granger? I think not. She’s clearly figured out something’s up. Plus, I’d need to stick a bag over her head.

It’s not until my next study group with Potter and his friends that the perfect candidate presents herself.

 


	3. Chapter 3

  
 

Ginny Weasley is late, hustling into the library short of breath and flushed from Quidditch practice.

“About time, Gin,” Granger admonishes. “I don’t know how you expect to catch up in Defence Against the Dark Arts if you’re always chasing a Quaffle.”

“I’m a Seeker, Hermione. I chase a _Snitch_.”

“Figure of speech.” She averts her eyes quickly, and I’m left wondering if she’s ever paid attention to the sport at all.

“Could have changed out of your practice robes,” Weasley says, shooting his sister a grin. “You smell like another type of ball I won’t mention.”

“ _Ron_ ,” says Granger.

Ginny punches him on the shoulder. She notices me. Her voice goes high and soft. “Oh, nobody told me you were joining us.”

My head tilts. “Miss Weaslette.”

Weasley snorts, flipping through his Defence book. “Aren’t you over that ruddy nickname?”

“Not at all.” I wink at his sister.

She goes pink in the ears, hunkers down next to Granger, and starts to read in silence. Potter nudges me with his shoulder. I’m briefly excited. _Is he jealous already?_ But he’s smiling at me with contained scorn.

“Be nice,” he whispers.

“That was nice.” I wink at him, too. He doesn’t fall for it like Ginny.

We spend an hour discussing the benefits of absorption shields curses versus deflection shields. Though, I’m not discussing. I’m experimenting with how close I can get my knee to Potter’s without him moving away. The answer turns out to be quite close. Our knees are flush together now; my leg is longer, so the fleshier part is laying against the bony bend of his. Perhaps he hasn’t noticed, as he’s got his nose an inch away from the Defence text now and is mouthing the words like he does when he’s concentrating.

We wrap things up close to curfew. It’s not until this point that Potter notices our proximity. He jerks away, apologising to _me_.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to crowd you.”

“Didn’t notice,” I yawn, stretching out of my chair.

We say our goodnights where the library corridor branches off to Gryffindor. At the last second, Ginny says, “Damn, I forgot my school robes in the Quidditch locker rooms!”

Ron scowls. “It’s dark out, Ginny. Let me—”

I wave him away. “I’ll walk her, Weasley. I’m headed downstairs, anyway.”

“Oh. Er, thanks, Malfoy.” He turns back to his friends, saying, “Really not so bad a bloke now, is he?”

To my disappointment, Potter doesn’t look twice as we leave. Fine. Guess I’ve got to turn up the heat on this thing.

Ginny shoots me expectant looks all the way downstairs. I’m reminded there’s a reason I’ve chosen her for this game: the summer I stayed at her family's house, she fancied me glaringly. And annoyingly. There I was, trying to figure out a way to be alone with Potter, lurking in the gardens, waiting to snatch him, hanging out near Weasley’s room, wanting to pull him in by his soft little neck—and there Ginny was. Smiling at me! Flipping her hair! Pushing her tits in my direction! The nerve of her. I mean, yeah, I would have hit that if not for Potter. She wasn’t bad looking. But I was a man with class, and I wasn’t about to come onto one of Potter’s closest friends. Until now.

“So,” I say, short on small talk except for my usual preoccupation, “the assistant groundskeeper. That’s your brother, right?”

“Charlie? Yeah. Didn’t you meet him at Bill and Fleur’s wedding last summer?”

“You’re right, I did. He’s a nice fellow.” _For a total shitstain_.

“He really is. Don’t tell Ron—” She leans towards me, her fingers grazing my wrist. “Charlie’s probably my favourite brother. He’s never made fun of me and he never tried to trick me into thinking I’d magicked all his limbs off when I was small.”

“Ha! The twins?”

“You’ve got it.”

 _Don’t care._ “So, how long have he and Potter been seeing each other?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. At least since Halloween, because I saw them slow-dancing at the Halloween Ball. Hermione told me Harry was seeing some other bloke before that.”

Granger again. Now I’m certain she’s in the know, the meddling bint.

We venture into the night, the cold hitting me like a wall. I realize any good suitor would offer Ginny his cloak, so that’s what I do, and she thanks me so casually it sounds forced.

“So, Weasley,” I say, once she completes her task. We’re standing in a dry spot beneath an overhang outside the locker rooms. I put my hands into my pockets, looking into the fog as though I’m nervous.

“Yes?”

“Valentine’s Day has already passed, but...” My eyes meet hers. She understands, but is waiting with expectant brown eyes. “Would you care to join me in Hogsmeade sometime?”

“Oh, I’d love to. Did you have something in mind?”

“Madame Puddifoot’s has a flower garden. They have heat lamps during the cold season. We could grab some tea and—”

“That sounds wonderful!”

“Great,” I say hurriedly. “Next Hogsmeade weekend, then. Come on, let’s get inside. I’m not as stoic as I look in the cold.”

She seems to find that funny. I walk her halfway upstairs, watching her linger as she makes her way up to Gryffindor. God, I wish I could follow her—plop next to Potter on the common room sofa, put my arm around him, and just forget about all this scheming.

The next Hogsmeade weekend is in mid-March. Spring is looming, and while it’s quite chilly most of the snow has melted, and gold light is breaking through the clouds, flowers are blooming, and Ginny Weasley is wearing a sundress. I don’t know what’s with women and dressing slinky when it’s cold enough for your nipples to freeze and break off, but I certainly don’t scoff. I tell her she looks better than anything in the flower garden, and pull out her seat. There are students milling in Hogsmeade Square, a couple Gryffindors who shoot us funny looks as they walk by the iron gates, but none of them are Potter. _Patience, Draco_ , my father says in my head.

“Hello, my darlings,” says Madame Puddifoot, a squat, plump woman who smells strongly of roses. “Would you care for a tea tray? Or can I interest you in our weekend brunch?”

“Oh, brunch sounds nice,” Ginny says.

I’m so bored of brunch. Seems like something Mum would have pursed her lips at at, stuffing your face with buttered bread and fruit compote and hollandaise far too early and rendering yourself catatonic for the rest of the day. Merlin.

“Sounds perfect,” I chirp.

She orders eggs benedict. I point to something named after an Italian island. Puttifoot asks if we’d like drinks, and I consider what might make a girl from a poor family feel special. Oh, and intoxicate her enough to tell me all of Harry Potter’s secrets.

“A bottle of your best champagne, please. With blood orange juice on the side.” I lean towards Ginny. “My favourite combination.”

“You don’t have to, Draco,” she says, shaking her head so her curls swing around her face.

“I insist.” I lean on my fist and look at her seriously. “Tell me about Quidditch this term. I hear you’re top Seeker now.”

She beams.

The reason I brought up Quidditch was that I was sure Potter was still on Gryffindor’s team, but apparently not. Is he too preoccupied with Charlie to play? I stab my Monte Cristo sandwich, pondering this. Apparently, during brunch, it’s acceptable to serve ham, cheese, and confectioner’s sugar in the same dish. What the Hell.

“How are you enjoying yours?” Ginny asks.

“Divine.” It’s at least better than the conversation. “Have some more champagne!”

We finish the bottle, the blood orange juice forgotten, and she’s finally giggling into her napkin.

“—and then Fred says, ‘and that’s why we call her skinny Ginny!’ They didn’t give me my underwear back until Mum and Dad got home. So embarrassing. Lucky it was just Luna there to see it.” She wipes her mirthful tears, adding, “I really miss Fred.”

“Hm,” I say, not knowing how else to comment on her dead brother. “Er, was Potter there for that one?

“Harry? No, I would have died if he’d seen me naked. I really fancied him when I was younger.”

This is slightly more interesting. Thankfully so, because every time I crane my neck I become less convinced Potter is even _in_ Hogsmeade today.

“Oh yeah? He never reciprocated?”

“No! Well...I thought he liked me back at first, but now I’m starting to think it was a cover for him being gay. Or maybe he was confused. Doesn’t matter. He clearly doesn’t like girls now.”

“Hm.” I grab her hand. “Well, he’s missing out.”

She smiles, tilting her head so her hair sweeps across my hand. Is it _Gryffindors_ that are so easy? Or Weasleys? Or is it the alcohol’s influence? No time to wonder. She squeaks and slumps in her chair, hissing, “It’s Ron.”

I look over my shoulder. Weasley, Granger, Potter, and a few other Gryffindors are stumbling out of the Three Broomsticks. Perfect! Actually, Weasley is doing most of the stumbling, hooking his arm around Potter’s neck and sniggering into his ear.

I check my watch. It’s one in the afternoon. “Bit early to get pissed.”

“You’re one to talk,” she says, eyes shining. She hasn’t noticed she’s the only one drinking. “They’re celebrating Ron’s 19th birthday. It was a couple weeks ago, but they saved it for the Hogsmeade weekend. Shit.” She looks around, perhaps for a rose bush to duck behind, but I’ve seated us in the airiest and most public part of the garden.

Something occurs to me. “You came out with me instead of going to your brother’s birthday party?”

She stops looking around long enough to go bright pink. “Yeah. What’s wrong with that?” she asks defensively.

I hold up an indulgent hand. Meanwhile, I’m cursing myself on the inside. She likes me. Like, _truly_ likes me. I have no idea what I did to earn her affections, but I’ve got to nip this in the bud. But first. I look over my shoulder. Potter and his friends are getting closer and closer. What to do? Stroke her hand? Fling an arm around her?

While I’m machinating, Ginny’s got some spinning cogs of her own: “Come on, let’s hide inside.” She yanks me up by the hand.

“What? I’m practically mates with your brother now. We don’t need to hide.”

“Clearly you’re not _close_ mates. Then you’d know Ron’s picked a fight with everyone I’ve ever gone out with on principle—even the Gryffindors. He’ll probably think you were being nice to him just to get at me. He’ll clobber you!”

How could that never have occurred to me?

She is dragging me towards the entrance of Puddifoot’s. The Gryffindors are marching down the road, headed straight for us, with Weasely gesturing in the middle of some tale. Granger is shaking her head with amusement, three other blokes are covering their mouths and laughing, and Potter—he’s gazing at his best friend fondly, but any moment his head will swing in my direction as he approaches the front of the tea shop.

I grit my teeth. This is my chance to put on a show. What Ginny said about Ron is still echoing in my head, though. I have a choice to make. Preserve my face? Or make Potter jealous? Two years ago the choice would have been obvious: self-preservation at any cost. But now? With those warm, green eyes sliding in my direction?

To Hell with my face.

Before Ginny can slip inside Madame Puddifoot’s, I tighten my grip on her hand, swing her back around, and kiss her. She yelps, making contact with my chest. I guess it’s nice. But it’s not Potter. She’s coming out of her stupor, her hands darting towards my hair, and that’s when I hear a slurring, squawk of a voice.

“Ginny? S’at you?”

We break apart.

I blink, as if in surprise.

Weasley is the one talking, turning as red as the rose petals falling around us, but it’s Potter I’m looking at. He is staring with chilling blankness. I can’t read a single emotion, but I imagine he’s displeased, as I’ve never seen him look so statue-like. I suppose that was the point, his displeasure. For a moment, I’m thrilled. It’s working! But something else is happening, something I did not expect: Potter’s eyes are boring into me, knife-like, tearing a hole in my chest. It hurts. And I can’t bat the pain away away, can’t reach out for him, soften those eyes, because we’re surrounded by people.

The two Weasleys are arguing on either side of the gate.

“You can’t tell me what to do, Ron!”

“I’m responsible for you, Ginny, whether you like it or not and this is completely inappropriate!”

“Inappropriate? It’s only inappropriate when _I’m_ the one snogging, meanwhile you and Hermione can go at it all over the common room, no matter who’s—”

“ _Ginny_ ,” Granger says, embarrassed.

“That’s different!” Weasley is gripping the iron bars, leaning over as far as he can go. “It’s—it’s—” He leans towards me, as if he’s just realized my role in this. “What the bloody Hell are you thinking, Malfoy? This is my kid sister!”

“I’m not a kid!”

I say nothing.

Potter...he’s backing away...past a tall, black fellow who looks upset, too.

 _Wait_ , I think, wanting dearly to reach for Potter. _Don’t leave, I’m sorry…_

What did I even expect? He’d leap over the fence and sucker-punch Ginny, and we’d make off into the sunset? No matter what I expected. I’ve wedged myself into a corner. Break the facade now, and my intentions will be clear. Potter will hate me all the more for trying to trick him. And now he’s leaving in silence, waiting until he’s turned mostly away to let his face pinch up in anguish.

What have I done?

Ginny is pulling me into the teashop, where we exit into a side alley. She’s apologizing. I’m shaking my head, morose. She tells me not to worry, that she’ll talk to Ron, and she’s pulling me close, wanting to rekindle the passion that wasn’t really there.

I ease her away. “Hold on, I think I’m...a bit under the weather. Maybe too much champagne. I’m going to head back to school.”

“Ah, right,” she says, clearly thinking I’m afraid of her brother. “Do you mind if I stay behind? I told Luna I’d meet up with her today.”

“Yeah. Go on.”

“See you soon, I hope.”

She disappears down the alleyway.

I flee.

I swoop around vendors, duck under banners, swerve around patrons and merchants, and push through unmoving crowds of students. Didn’t he go this direction? My glances into shop windows are fruitless. At any rate, I’m coming to the end of the main throughway, where I thought he was most likely to be headed. The road to Hogwarts is sparsely populated, as the day is still young. Far ahead, moving rapidly, bringing up clouds of dirt—there he is.

I stick out my hand, though he’s not within reach.

“Harry! Harry, wait!”

My feet can’t move fast enough. I stumble, but right myself. I’ve got to get there—to say— _something_.

“Harry, hold on, please!”

He hears me now. He stops, looking over his shoulder. His eyes are pink, but there are no tears. Just stone coldness.

“I can explain—it really didn’t—”

I reach out to grab his shoulder. In the same instant, he flings up his arm, bringing a sheath of silver fabric over his head. My hand touches emptiness.

 _That ruddy cloak_.

He must be nearby, as no footsteps appear in the dirt. I spin in a circle like a lost child. It takes me a full minute to admit to myself that I’m unwelcome.

 

  
***

 

In sixth year, I sometimes walked Potter back up to his tower, so it is no trouble finding the entrance. It’s only been a day, but I can’t bare it any longer. I have to see him, even if it’s just to beg for forgiveness. God, what a sap I’ve become. I bang on the frame, and the Fat Lady scowls at me as though I’ve looked up her dress.

It’s not Potter who bursts out, but Ron Weasley.

He has me by the shirt collar before the Fat Lady can snap her frame shut. He’s backing me up, lifting me almost to my toes. It’s striking how similar he is to his brother in this moment.

“I can’t believe you!” he growls. “I _trusted_ you, and this whole time you were just trying to make it with my sister?”

“Weasley, it’s not—” I’m choking, groping for my wand, but can’t get at my back pocket the way he’s shaking me against the wall.

“Or was it Harry? Were you just trying to fuck with his head? Make him jealous that Ginny’s off with another bloke?”

“What?” I’d laugh if I weren’t preserving oxygen for vital processes. “Lemme go...I can explain—”

“You don’t need to explain! Either way, you’re just as sneaky as you ever were.”

“Ron! Let him go!” Granger has run out. She’s grabbing him by the arm, but he won’t budge.

“Stay out of it, Hermione, you don’t know what he—”

“I know far more about it than you do, so let him go, right now!”

He drops me.

I clutch my throat, sucking in air like it’s the first time I’ve ever tasted it.

“What are you on about?” Weasley is asking her.

She ignores him, sticking an ink-stained little finger in my face. “What do you think you’re _doing_ still running after Harry?”

I keep against the wall, wary of both of them, but still sneer as I say, “Mind your own business, wench.”

“Oy!” Weasley grabs me by the shirt. I flinch, but the blow never comes. “You watch your damn mouth! And, Hermione, what the Hell are you on about?”

“I’m talking about Malfoy being a complete prick!”

When Weasley goes pale, I gather he’s never heard Granger talk like that. I’m too busy worrying over _precisely_ what she knows to mind Weasley’s reaction or his fist still pinning me against the wall.

“Should I tell him, Malfoy?” she asks. “Or will you?”

I narrow my eyes. “Nothing to tell.”

“All right!” She spins towards Weasley. There’s no way. She wouldn’t _really_ — “Malfoy and Harry used to go out, Ron. In sixth year, when Harry claimed Malfoy was feeding him information on the Death Eaters, that was a cover. They were really snogging each other in secret.”

Huh. Should have known she was that meddlesome. Weasley and I stare with our mouths open, and she lets out a great scoff.

“That’s why I’ve been suspicious of Malfoy this year. Not because I think he’s bad, like you keep accusing me of—though, I don’t think he’s all that good either. He’s leading Harry on! Don’t you see? He broke up with Harry because—because—” She looks at me. I think she knows the truth, and doesn’t want to tell Weasley. It’s not her place. I smirk like a devil. She growls in frustration. “—because he’s a _prick_ , like I said! And Harry just got over him and moved on with Charlie, and I don’t want Malfoy hurting his feelings again. That’s the only reason he went out with Ginny. Not because he liked her. Because he was trying to make Harry jealous enough to break up with Charlie.”

Weasley’s colour has returned to normal. But his hands are shaking. He pulls me close, and I feel in my core he will clobber me. I close my eyes. This is it. My perfect nose—gone! My marriage prospects—out the door! If Potter won’t have me, I’ll have to propose to Millicent Bulstrode.

“Is she pulling my leg?” he whispers.

I open my eyes. His eyes are round, brown, genuine, and I simply can’t lie to this man.

“No. She’s telling the truth.”

“I see.” He lets go.

I heave a sigh. “Thanks, Weasley. Look—”

He punches me in the gut.

“Uuurgh!”

I’m on the floor. Perhaps my insides are, too. I don’t know, hard to tell. But being punched in the gut feels like your intestines are trying to leap out through your mouth.

“That’s for leading on my sister,” Weasley says. He wraps an arm around my back and heaves me off the floor. He brushes off my robes. Gryffindors are so weird. “Now, tell me what happened with Harry, so I don’t have to punch you a second time. We’ll go inside.”

I look at the portrait hole, still doubled over. “In...there?”

“Gin’s at a late practice and Harry’s with Charlie. Come on, ‘Mione will cast a deterring charm, so we can have some privacy.”

Somehow, I never really thought I’d enter Gryffindor’s common area, _much less_ escorted by Granger and Weasley. We’re in a corner with plush chairs and sofas, near the boy’s dormitory by the looks of the students tromping in and out. None of them notice us through Granger’s deterring charm.

They’re both staring at me.

I didn’t know where to begin, especially since the story is full of sensitive information about Potter’s bits. Not only that: I have no idea why I feel compelled to share the story with them at all, beyond the threat of another attack on my intestines. I conclude that Weasley and Granger are the closest I’m going to get to Potter for the time being. If I can get _them_ to understand, then perhaps that would bode well for Potter’s empathy, too.

“It’s true,” I say, more to Weasley than Granger. “We were seeing each other sixth year. It started out an accidental fling. A chance meeting in the night became frequent meetings, and before we knew it we were, you know, sharing things. I confided some things about my mother. He confided some things about…” My eyes dart to Granger. She’s frowning with firelight dancing in her eyes. “...some things about You-Know-Who,” I finish. It’s true, if skewed. “And we got close. We weren’t exactly an item, but it seemed to be going that way. And after the war...things were just different. Perhaps just too much time apart. Yeah, she’s right, I ditched him. In the most dismissive way possible. You’re right, Granger, I was a prick.”

“And now?” Weasley asks. He betrays no emotion.

“Now? Now, I know I made a mistake. If I’m honest, I realized it straight away. The changes I perceived in Potter, they weren’t all that significant. It was my _fear_ that was in the way, more than anything. That’s why I didn’t come back to Hogwarts in September. I couldn't face him. Was such a coward. But the longer I stayed away, the more I missed him. I had to come find him, get him back. I didn’t know he was seeing your brother until I arrived.”

The portrait hole opens. A few Quidditch players file in, laughing and play-fighting. Ginny is amongst them. None of them notice us in the corner as they retire for the night.

Weasley turns to me darkly. “What about her?”

“There’s nothing there,” I sigh. “It was a farce. Granger’s right again. I just wanted Potter to get jealous and come back to me.”

“So I was right to punch you.”

I can see I’m losing any sympathy he’d drudged up. Granger...well, I don’t think she ever sympathized. For some reason, perhaps to show the magnitude with which I long for Potter, I blurt out, “And I hired Astoria Greengrass to flirt with your brother.”

Granger’s eyebrows shoot up. “I _thought_ that flirting thing in the newspaper was blatant.”

“Clearly not blatant enough,” I mutter, putting my head in my hands.

There’s nothing else to say. Not only am I a fool, I’m a fool who’s bollocks at wooing. Honesty didn’t work. Planting competition didn’t work. Making Potter jealous didn’t work. The only things missing are love potions and _actually_ going for Charlie Weasley’s blood, but if I’m honest, I’d like Potter to come back to me on his own accord. What a joke of a Slytherin I make.

There’s a warm weight on my shoulder. I look up. It’s Weasley’s hand, and he’s giving me a heavy, not-quite-pitying look.

“Blimey. Seems like you actually like him. That’s why he ran off in Hogsmeade, then? I was starting to think he had feelings for Ginny.”

I meet eyes with Granger. She cracks a tiny smile. Seems we find the idea of Potter with a woman equally as amusing.

“But you’re underestimating him,” Weasley is saying. “Harry’s a smart bloke. And an intuitive one. He’s going to find out what you’re doing eventually, and he’s going to feel even more betrayed, so your best bet to make up with him is just to wait it out. Let this run its natural course.”

I don’t know why I say this next thing. Gryffindors must be making me soft. “I miss him.”

They share a look. Even Granger’s face softens.

Weasley sighs, massaging his eyes tiredly. “Not that I’m rooting against my brother or anything, but if you like Harry as much as you seem to...well, you have my blessing. But if you keep trying to manipulate him, I’ll tell him what’s going on.”

I nod.

He claps me on the shoulder. “I’m trusting you, Malfoy.”

I know he is. It’s strange, but I want to prove he’s not stupid to do so.

The fire is dying down, and all the students have gone to bed. When we stand, the deterring charm breaks—just as the portrait hole opens. Potter hops in, hair mussed, cheeks blotchy. I don’t want to know what that means. Unfortunately, I do know. That’s how he used to look after our nighttime affairs. He stops in his tracks.

“I was just leaving,” I say quickly. “Nice studying with you.”

Granger nods. “Yeah, Malfoy’s been really helpful with the wandless magic unit, Harry.” She shoots up, making for the girl’s dorm. “Thanks again. Goodnight, Harry. _Goodnight_ , Ron.”

“OH! Yeah, night.” Weasley runs for his dorm, too.

I don’t want to linger and make Potter uncomfortable. He doesn’t even look at me as I edge around him. Once through the portrait hole, I lean against the frame and release a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

It’s not until I descend two flights of stairs that I hear a shout from above.

“Draco!”

I nearly trip. Potter is peering at me over the edge of the Gryffindor landing.

“Can we talk for a moment?” he asks.

My mouth is sealed shut. I want to say yes, but manage only a nod. His head disappears. I start swiftly back up. Suddenly, the staircase disconnects from the top and swings 180 degrees. I clutch the stone railing as the staircase rotates; when it stops, I realize I’m cut off from Potter completely. He reappears above me, scowling, his hands on his hips.

“See, this is why I live in the dungeons,” I deadpan.

“No shortage of adventure in this castle.” He points to another route. “Meet me down there. Can you see where our levels connect?”

“Yes.”

I jog in that direction, leaping off another staircase just as it begins to move. Potter is laughing nearby. I can’t see him, but guess the castle is playing tricks on him, too. The joyous sound makes my heart swell with hope. He reappears on the opposite end of a bridge. We’re only feet apart. The path is clear, yet I don’t trust it.

“Just stay there,” I say. As soon as I step forward, the bridge rumbles. It pulls apart in a clean horizontal break. I throw up my arms. “Oh, come on!”

“Clearly, the castle doesn’t want us meeting up. Maybe it knows we’re out after curfew. Well, then—” Potter crouches in running stance.

My heart palpitates. “No!”

“It’s not that far. I can make it.” His tongue is poking out as he measures his jump.

“Hold on,” I say, thrusting out my hands. “This can wait till tomorrow. It’s a long way down. What if—”

“Then I just won’t fall.” Potter’s cheeks are dimpling with mischief. He takes a running start.

“Harry, Harry, wait!”

I’m wracking my brain for a strong levitation spell. I scramble for my wand and grab it just into time to say, “ _Corporeum_ —ooof!”

The wind is knocked out of me. We’re stumbling backwards, his bony hip planted in my midsection, his arms around my shoulders. A wall breaks our fall.

“Are you all right?” Potter asks, holding me against the wall as my knees threaten to buckle.

My eyes are watering, but I force a smile. Gryffindors. Brutes, the lot of them.

We stroll through the corridors, since it appears we are cut off from Potter’s tower for now. His eyes seem worried behind his glasses.

“Sorry I hurt you.”

“I’m fine. It’s not the first time I’ve had my organs compromised today.”

“What? Not Charlie?”

“No, the other one.”

For some reason, that makes it okay. He laughs. “I see. Was it about...Ginny?”

“You could say that.”

He stops walking. My stomach sinks as he looks at me from under his lashes. “So you’re...seeing her now? I mean...I know she fancied you at the Burrow. But Hermione said she found you hiding from Ginny once, so I was under the impression it was a one way street.”

“It was,” I say gently. “I mean, it was a mistake to ask her out. I made the mistake of thinking all Gryffindors were like you.”

I don’t know if this counts as manipulation. No, I didn’t _really_ think this thought about Ginny. But I’m trying to compliment him, to let him know there’s no way anyone else could measure up. That’s not wrong, is it? I’m new to this honesty business.

“Er,” he says, looking over his shoulder like he wants to flee.

“I’m not trying to convince you of anything. I just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you.” It’s barely audible, so I’m forced to look at his mouth. “Charlie thinks you went out with her to get at me.”

Now how do I respond to _that_ honestly? “Charlie’s...very suspicious of me.”

“Yes.”

We laugh uncomfortably.

He pulls a hand through his hair. Perhaps a nervous gesture. I notice his hair is longer than it used to be. It works for him. The heaviness of it keeps it from flying away, so now he can tuck it behind his ear and let it curl around his earlobe. My breath quickens just thinking about how his earlobe has always felt against my lips, pliant, cool, and soft. I look away, catching sight of a lantern in the distance.

I snatch Potter’s wrist. He doesn’t protest as I pull him into what I believe is storage room and cast a deterring spell.

“What was that?”

“Filch.”

“Oh.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, shuffling in place. It’s such a Potter gesture, I find myself smiling and shaking my head at the same time. He looks at me sideways. “I remember the first time you hid us from Filch.”

“Ha. Hard to forget that night.”

It doesn’t seem he’s reminiscing with any particular fondness. I’m disappointed. He walks around the room, perhaps aimless, amongst crates and ill-repaired furniture, before climbing into the window seat and looking out at the grounds with his hands pressed against the glass.

“I can see Charlie’s tent from here. Can’t from my dorm.”

The mere mention of the name agitates me. I wonder if he’s sought me out just to punish me with such words. I slide into the cove beside him and look at his face, not out the window. He touches his hair, once again tucking it behind his ear. He frowns, pulling his hand away.

“That’s embarrassing,” he says, flicking a small leaf to the floor. I’m shocked with images of Charlie fucking him in the brushes of the Forbidden Forest until he adds, “He likes to hunt. We were doing nighttime target practice tonight. Crossbow. It’s going to be Dugbog season.” He snorts.

I recall the pests from class. They prey on small animals and have been known to glide along swamp edges and grab the ankles of passing humans.

“You don’t seem too thrilled by the prospect,” I say.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s certainly better than hunting for Dark Lords.”

“I imagine so.”

It’s clear he feels my eyes on his face but is dead-set on staring out the window.

“How are you? I mean...since all that?”

Potter turns abruptly. “We haven’t talked much, have we?”

“Haven’t talked at all, by my reckoning. I don’t think studying counts.”

“Guess not.” He looks at his lap, his hair falling over his eyes, and then back at me. “I’ve been doing better than expected. Especially considering all the attention. That’s why I came back, you know. It’s easier to stay out of the public eye at Hogwarts. They were calling me the Man Who Saved the World for a while. Thank goodness that’s died down. Everything’s dying down—the press isn’t speculating about me so much, either. You should have seen some of things they were writing after the war.”

“I remember one article quite vividly.” I fan out my hands. “ _Harry Potter: The Hero, the Hunk_.”

“Oh God, don’t remind me!”

“No, no, it was a brilliant piece. Let’s see… _Harry Potter has always been a boy of extremes. He speaks Parseltongue. He was chosen as a Champion for the Triwizard Tournament. He consistently looks death in the face and smites it with his fist_ ….”

“Stop, you did _not_ memorize it,” he laughs.

“ _He even goes through_ puberty _more abruptly than most. Once a diminutive boy of seventeen, he’s now a strapping lad of eighteen, and any sane witch would fall over and die—just die—if he looked her way_ —”

“They didn’t write any of that!”

“I can paraphrase.”

“You _tend_ to if you’re making a point.” The look he gives me is slow and soft. He’s turned away from the window now, swinging his feet against the wall, something he did a lot when he was shorter and his feet never quite reached the floor. Now, perhaps it’s a habit. “Anyway, I told Hermione about my gender problem. So, the only one who should have found my version of puberty abrupt was Ron. I grew two inches in two weeks, started shaving, _and_ outrunning him.” He shoots me a grin too charming for words.

“Well,” I reason, “you’re a wizard and needed testosterone to slay a Dark Lord. I imagine, in Weasley’s head, you just woke up one morning and decided to produce some.”

“Do you have to joke about everything?” he asks, still grinning.

I shrug. “It helps.”

“With what?”

I don’t answer. I stare at my left hand, where it rests on the lip of the stone, and notice that it’s only an inch from his. If I jutted out my pinky, it would graze his skin.

“Do you miss it?” I ask. “Having girl bits?”

“Sometimes. But I’m mostly glad my whole body matches, you know? I suppose...being male...it was the right choice all along. If my parents were _meant_ to have a boy. I was just scared to pull the trigger.”

“You’re still braver than most.”

“Draco,” he says, shaking his head with a fond sort of disapproval.

“I’m not buttering you up.”

“I know. That isn’t your style.”

My voice sounds strange to my ears, coming from deep within my chest, so quiet I notice the vibrations more than the words. “What is my style?”

His jaw is set. It makes his face look hard and strong. But the voice that comes out is meek. “Corner me in the castle at night and have your way with me.”

There is silence.

When I smile, I can hear my lips moving over my teeth. “If you recall...you ran after me.”

“I did. Yes.”

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Um.” His eyebrows draw up with worry. “I can’t remember now.”

It’s a bad lie. Potter can barely get the words out of his mouth, and he’s already looking at his shoes. Maybe my fling with Ginny had an effect on his competitive side, after all. And maybe these Gryffindors are rubbing off on me because I find myself fighting the urge to slide my hand onto his.

I lose. My hand moves, as if on it’s own accord, to cover his. Compared to the stone, his skin is hot and smooth. When my thumb strokes over his knuckles, he shudders, exhales, and then closes his eyes tight. I lean towards him, my shoulder bumping his. He isn’t moving away, but I sense his worry. It is not my intention to force him, but fuck all if I’m not going to follow the signs he gives me; _forgetting_ why he ran after me, indeed.

I reach up, tug off his glasses, and he’s left blinking with those bright eyes, his lashes fanning against his cheekbones, and I’m made aware, not for the first time, that none of his beauty was gender-based. It was _Harry’s_ beauty. Just like his strength was Harry’s strength. And his heart was Harry’s heart, and I know now that I want it to be mine, as well.

He must feel me breathing against his lips. Mine part, anticipating. I don’t want to be rash. I touch my nose to his. He gasps so softly I can only feel it as I rub the fleshy part of my nose along his bridge. Our hands are clasped now. I reach out with the other, wanting to feel more of him, anything he will let me touch, his chest, his chin, the shell of his ear, between his fingers, the tips of his curls, I don’t care. It’s been so long, too long, anything will do. My right hand slides up his wrist, then his forearm. I’m met with the round, protruding bone of his elbow, which was present before, when he was part girl, just not as prominent. The arm has more hair, too, but it’s fine hair, invisible against his olive skin, and _that_ is still petal soft. My left hand moves to cup the back of his head, and my right hand drops to his knee; I grab him behind the knee, dragging him close, feeling him gasp again. His legs are slung over mine. I feel up his thigh, which is firmer than it once was, and up his stomach, his neck, until I’m stroking the skin of his cheek. It’s rough. It’s just a bit of hair, though. I don’t mind. I might even like it. My nose runs from his cheek, to his temple, to his hair. It’s thick and silky. It smells like the forest and the wool of his jumper.

“Draco,” he says, eyes downcast.

“Can I kiss you?”

I can hear him breathing.

He nods.

His head turns that last inch, but he won’t press his lips to mine. It’s like all this will be his fault if he dares. I’m happy to take the blame. I take his cheek, and finally, finally kiss his mouth.

His hands rest on my stomach, as if he is poising himself to spring away, but his mouth does not spring away. It is pliant. It opens. He lets his head fall back as I hover over him, and my height, I realize, is one thing I still have on him, as I cradle him in the crook of my elbow and press the flat on my tongue against his, bearing down yet trying to remain tender, and I am reminded of the night I first lay with him, as he quivered in my arms not in nervousness but out of the sheer novelty of being fucked not by a dildo but by a man, larger, stronger, more imposing than he was. This may be my embellishment, a symptom of ego. It doesn’t matter. I’m kissing Harry Potter.

He was right all those weeks ago when he told me he couldn’t be alone with me. If I’d known then that _this_ is all it would take to make him mine, I would have cornered him every day. Does he feel my heart beating like a drum? Does he feel the way my Adam’s apple bobs as I try not to lose control? I grip his arm, wrapping it around my neck. I lean him back into the cold window glass, his head meeting it just a bit firmly, and when he opens his mouth to cry out, my focus breaks from the kiss. I bury my face into his neck, shuddering, kissing, and pushing my hands up his jumper.

“Wait...no...” He’s sitting up.

I try not to force him. I try to be gentle. I grip his wrists, whispering, “It’s okay, just lay back—”

“This is wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I’ll take the blame. Just tell him that I—”

“No, I _want_ to be with him!” He pushes me and clambers up. His words were so sharp that I find myself narrowing my eyes. “I’m not blaming you,” he adds hastily. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have come after you. I should go.”

He’s headed for the door. I lunge forward, grab him around the middle. “Hold on. You can’t—just _leave_ after that. Look at me.”

“I can’t, it’s too hard.”

I jerk him around. Pained, he meets my eyes.

“Don’t leave,” I say roughly. I take a breath. “We can just...sit here…and talk.”

“I can’t just talk to you. I knew I shouldn’t have invited you to our study group. It’s so hard being around you.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because—” He makes a tragic noise, putting his hands in his hair.

“It feels the same as before, right? It does for me. Just the same.”

I lean forward, trying kiss him, but he struggles out of my grasp and his back meets the door with a thwack. Stubborn, fucking—

“ _Fine_ ,” I bark. How can I want to kiss him and hex him at the same time? “Just tell me you’d rather have Weasley than me. That’s all you have to say. Tell me you don’t want this with me, and I’ll leave you alone for good.”

“Like you said, you didn’t follow me tonight,” he mutters, eyes on the floor.

“Tell me you don’t want this, Potter.”

“You _know_ I can’t say that to you. It’d be a lie. And I bloody suck at lying.”

I take a step forward.

He throws out a hand, almost frightened. “Can’t you see what I need right now? Can’t you be my _friend_ for once, and look out for _me_ more than yourself?”

I grit my teeth as I ask, “What would a friend do in my situation?”

“He’d have mercy on me, and just _stay away!"_

So he can’t tell me he doesn’t want me? But he can ask me to stay away? I’m confused. I’m angry. And I’m at loss for what to do. What’s right? What’s wrong? I don’t know anymore. Did I ever know to begin with?

But Potter is nodding, as if he does know. It’s like he’s trying to convince himself more than me. “Just stay away from me.”

The door clicks gently behind him.

His glasses are still on the window seat. I hold them in my lap as the sky goes from black, to purple, to passion red. When I can no longer keep my eyes open and decide to slink back to the dungeons, I leave the glasses where I found them.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

Dunno why I’m in the owlery. My robes are stuck to the floor with encrusted shit and there is hay in my hair and my skin feels dry like jerky.

It takes two heaves to sit up. Light from the cutout windows pierces my eyes. I put up a hand, but the pain stays. Head throbs. Oh God. I wobble to my feet, catch myself in a shadowy enclave, trying to swallow, but my tongue and throat are fused with paste-like saliva. I force the swallow. I groan.

Two eyes are blinking at me from across the room. Person eyes. They are round and anxious.

“Hey,” I grunt.

“H-hi.”

First year? Second? Boy, girl? Doesn’t matter.

“What time is it?”

“Erm. Lunchtime?”

“Hm.” Slept through class again.

I push off the wall. Stagger towards the stairs. Need to get some water.

“Oy,” the kid says, holding something out. The self-filling flask Dad gave me at Christmas.

I take it. Mutter something. The flask is full, so I’ve depleted it at least once. Ugh. The thought of that taste, that poison in my stomach, makes me dry heave.

There’s a splash. The kid scrambles backwards. It wasn’t a dry heave.

 

***

 

I chuck the flask into the lake.

Why would my father get me that? He’s probably under the impression I have self-control. I don’t. I’ve no control, not over my vices, nor my love life, nor apparently my studies, as I can’t recall the last time I saw the inside of a classroom. Only reason I’m still here is because Dad’s an arsehole and won’t let me come home. Not that I’ve asked. Don’t want to tell him what a failure I am.

I think it’s Thursday, the Thursday after the weekend with Ginny, and the confession to her brother, and the kiss with Harry, and him tossing me out of his life. Or, rather, him telling me flat-out to excuse _myself_. Whatever the day, it’s late enough in the afternoon that Snape’s out of class, gliding through the dungeons like a beaky phantom. I try to move past him without eye contact, but he’s got designs of his own.

He snatches my arm, pulling me around to face him. “Why haven’t you been in class?”

“I have been.”

He gives me a look that would make a Hufflepuff piss down his leg.

“I _have_ ,” I insist. “Just been sitting in the back row.”

“There are six students in Advanced Potions, Mr Malfoy, and Granger’s head isn’t _quite_ so large that it could block my view of you. Try again.”

“I’ve been ill.”

“No infirmary records. You’re a liar.”

I’m staring at the pattern a torch is flickering across the stone. “Can I go now?”

Snape answers by fisting me by the scruff of the robes and hauling me into his office. I don’t object. I’ve got no where better to be. He stands in front of his desk, arms folded, looking like a right git.

“I’ve been writing to your father, you know.”

That gets my attention. “About what?”

“About your preoccupation. Your failing marks. Your magic gone askew.”

“That’s all bullshit!” And now Dad is going to know how weak I’ve become over Potter—or, rather, the conventional pureblood heiress he probably imagines I’m smitten with—and it’s all because of Snape sticking his big fat nose up my arse. “How could you do that? I’m not a child. It’s none of your business.”

“I consider you my business.”

“Don’t act like you give fuck about me! My father _paid_ you to give me lessons, and when he stopped, Dumbledore _forced_ you to keep doing it! And even if that weren’t the case, my magic is fine.”

“Is it? So you thought it amusing to send all of Slytherin table’s food spinning into the air each breakfast and supper?”

I shift my feet. “You don’t know that was me.”

“If your rather focused glowering in the direction of Gryffindor table was any indication—oh, yes, it was. Not to mention I’m well acquainted with your magical signature at this point, Mr Malfoy.”

“Fine, whatever. It only happened two or three times.” Or four, or ten. “Anyway, I got it under control, didn’t I?”

“No. I did. Your classmates were complaining about having to lasso their food before they could eat it, so I spelled the table.”

I can’t help glaring at Snape. He’s blank-faced, as pale as an infirm, and I’m large enough at this point that if I lunged at him I’m sure I could take him. Of course, I don’t. I sniff, feigning boredom.

“What’s the point, Snape? You going to give me detention for being mean to the roast beef?”

The hoods of his eyes lower patronizingly. “If you need my help, you can ask for it.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Yeah, but I didn’t care to. I turn around, headed for the door. He grabs me by the arm again.

“Let go,” I growl, pulling him with my anger. He uses the momentum to slam me into the door. My shoulder meets the wood hard enough to bruise. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Are you trying to fail your N.E.W.Ts?” he hisses.

“Yeah, isn’t everybody?”

“Do you want _all_ your time at Hogwarts to have been for nought?”

“ _No_.”

“Then _ask_ for my help. I won’t offer it unless you’re man enough to humble yourself.”

 _Humble_ myself? This self-righteous, greasy fucker.

He releases me.

I’m glaring so hard, I’m surprised I can see clearly. Still, I find myself wondering, “What kind of help?”

“Dark Arts. Magical control. What do you think?”

“Like before?”

Snape flits away. He’s rummaging in his desk. He slaps a piece of parchment onto the surface. “Letter of recommendation to McGonagall. About you. I don’t even know why I bother.”

He flicks a hand, and the letter zips towards me. I scan it. My eyes go wide.

“The teaching post? You want me to apply for the Defence job?”

“I assume you’ve been to at least one of your Defence Against the Dark Arts classes? The professor’s an idiot. I don’t need to tell you. And if I can’t have the position,” he says, sounding as bitter as if he’s just taken a bite out of a lemon, “well...I’d like someone _nearly_ competent to have it.”

“You think I’m nearly competent?” I ask, boggled.

“It’s faith-based, at this juncture.” He looks me up and down, sighing. “Idiot boy. Do you want to study with me or not?”

“Why?”

“Can’t you answer a simple question?” His nostrils flare, and I get the impression his patience is about to snap. I’ll be straight with him after this, but I want to know his motives first. He heaves a sigh. “The war is over. It’s been twenty years since I have found myself with free time, and furthermore I don’t relish the thought of the work I’ve already put into you going to waste.”

No. The real answer is there, buried under sickly translucent skin and even more transparent eyes—they waver for a split second, but I’m still sharp when I want to be. Snape’s not bored. He’s _cares_ about me.

I smile. The expression feels foreign on my face. He doesn’t notice. He’s glancing at his private herb cupboard.

“As for Potions, don’t trouble yourself to show up any longer. There aren’t enough marks this term for you to make up those you’ve lost. I’m not going to give you special treatment in more than one subject.”

“When did you become my Uncle Snape?”

His eyes flash. He storms over like a black cloud, snatches the letter, and sticks a finger in my face. “If you ever say that again, I will incinerate this letter and make you wish you’d died at the hands of the Dark Lord.”

I’m still smiling as I head back to the common room. Though Potter is a lost cause, I think the pendulum of my life might be on an upswing.

 

***

 

Maybe not.

I expect a peaceful evening in the dungeons. What I get, once I enter the common room, is an estrogen-fueled whirlwind of bother.

Pansy is first.

“Is he serious?” she asks, darting towards me, before I’m even halfway to my favourite chair. Her voice is clipped, but there’s a trembling edge as if she’s trying not to betray a weaker emotion.

“Who? What are you talking about?”

She points without looking. Zabini is on the sofa, smirking like a rat. Or whatever it is rats do to look so untrustworthy.

“You’re going out with Ginny Weasley?” she demands, mouth tight.

“Oh.” I wave a careless hand. “Gross exaggeration. I _went out_ with her on one occasion—”

“She’s not your girlfriend, then? Because apparently she’s talking like she is.”

“I didn’t exactly break it off with her, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Oh my God!”

I think Pansy meant to say that under her breath, but it comes out like a moan. Part of me wants to admonish her for her dramatics; then again, another part of me wants my scrotum to remain outside my body.

“Draco, _what_ did I do to disgust you so? I thought we were—that you just needed _time_ , and—”

Chin is trembling. Eyebrows are drawing together. She is heedless of the students who are watching openly now, as if we’re some kind of soap opera. I glare at Zabini. The sod probably did this to get back at me because Greengrass won’t give him the time of day, and I can’t _stand_ that it’s at Pansy’s expense.

I put my hand on her shoulder, lean close, and whisper, “Pansy, I don’t want to be insensitive, but you’re making a spectacle.”

“No, you're making a spectacle! She’s a blood-traitor, and not even from a good family. You think your mother would have...I mean...do you think your father would even allow...?” She chokes. Black makeup is streaming down her cheeks.

Someone is snickering behind me. Others are trading nervous looks. I’m prickling at her mention of my mother, but before I can tell her off two brunette girls are flying out of the tunnel from the girl’s dormitory. The taller one looks like beautiful Hell demon.

“Malfoy,” she booms. The audience turns. I know she is a Greengrass. But, wait, both girls are Greengrasses, and standing right next to each other they’re like twins to me.

“Er—” I spread out my hands. She stops in front of me, hands on her hips. When she does nothing except glare at me with large blue eyes, I add, “At your service?”

“No,” she bites. “Apparently, I’ve been at _yours_.”

The girl behind her is holding a kneazle, grimacing apologetically. Astoria.

I turn to the angry Greengrass. “Daphne,” I say, practically purring (sometimes this works, and being surrounded by three attractive, riled-up women, my charm mechanism must be working overtime), “my deepest apologies, but can’t say I know what you’re referring to. What if we excused ourselves to a more _private_ location, charmed up some tea, and—?”

“No, this needs to be public!” Daphne addresses the common room, particularly the boys. “I’ve never slept with anyone, _especially_ Draco Malfoy, no matter what nasty rumours he’s spreading!”

The students murmur and laugh and some boys hide their heads. Pansy is looking at me, disgusted, saying, “ _Draco_.”

“What? It’s not like _I_ started that rumour. _You’re_ the one who calls her Easy Daphne.”

Daphne is going for her wand. Astoria holds her back, while Pansy exclaims, “I’ve never!” and throws a hand onto her chest.

My jaw drops. My eyes go helplessly to Astoria, but she looks off into the fireplace like she hasn’t heard a thing. The others girls in the room avert their eyes, too. _The bloody coven of plotters!_

I should just leave. Blow off these women and get drunk again with my owl. But even Diablo seems to be giving me the cold-shoulder now, since I haven’t seen his face in ages. There’s only one way out of this.

False humbleness.

I slap my hands together like I’m praying. “You’re right, Daphne—Pansy. I’m a cad. A right cad, and I’m ashamed. _I’ve never slept with Daphne Greengrass_ ,” I tell the common room, “and I’ve been jerking Pansy Parkinson around! It was wrong of me, utterly wrong of me.” I’m backing towards the common room door. I vaguely hear a commotion behind me, but am too busy pretending to plead to take notice. “I’ve learned my lesson, and now I—”

“Hey, Draco,” Crabbe is saying. “I think your girlfriend is here.”

I whirl around. “Girlfriend?”

An orange blur is streaking into the common room. Ginny finds me instantly, as I am the dumbarse standing in the middle of the crowd, gaping, with now _four_ witches looking at me like I’m a blight on decent society.

“You ditch me, but only tell my _brother_?” she cries, thrusting her wand into my chest. My hands go up. Several other wands have been pulled, and though they are pointed at Ginny’s head, I really don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.

“Now, just hold on,” I say. “Everyone, calm down! She’s not going to hex me.”

“Oh, yes I am! Unless you tell me what’s going on. If you don’t want to date me, then you can say it to my face. I’m not some delicate flower!”

I’m thankful she’s given me an out, but somehow, against all odds, I have a minutia of conscience and I don’t want to embarrass her publicly.

“Let’s do this in private,” I say.

Pansy snorts loudly. “He wants to go in private with her now.”

I realize I haven’t resolved my issue with Pansy either. It’s clear to me that if I make off alone with Ginny right now I’ll be making things more difficult for myself.

“You, too, Pansy. My dorm. Let’s go.”

I trudge away, ignoring the eyes, the wands, and the fist-pumps by my male comrades. Behind me, Daphne exclaims, “I’m coming, too! This is not over, Malfoy. My sister won’t believe me, and I will not have her telling Mummy and Daddy I’ve been sleeping with every boy in this godless school.”

“I said I wouldn’t, though,” Astoria implores, “but you won’t vouch that I never slept with Charlie Weasley!”

I guess she’s headed for my dorm, too.

 _I guess we’re all headed to my dorm_ , I think, annoyed because in all my boyhood fantasies about having a harem of women in my bedroom, this was not remotely how it went. As we leave the common room, my Housemates clap behind me, shouting, “Good show, loverboy!” and other sentiments I dearly wish I were in the state of mind to appreciate.

So, that’s why four girls are lined up on my bed, arms crossed, legs crossed, staring at me darkly. My foot is tapping. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.

“Look, I don’t need to be in here,” Ginny says, bristling because she’s pressed up against Pansy. “Just tell me why you asked me out if you were going to ditch me behind my back.”

I sigh. Surely the truth is not applicable. “I don’t know, Weasley. It was a fluke.”

“A fluke’s worth humiliating another person? Someone who tried to make you comfortable while you stayed at her house last summer?” she asks, ignoring the way Pansy is goggling in surprise. “I knew it. I should have known better, but Luna convinced me that there’s still gold in the middle of a rotten egg, or some whimsical rubbish!”

“We went on _one_ date, Weasley. It wasn’t even a real date, we just drank champagne and orange juice at the same table, and—”

“You had mimosas without me,” Pansy says flatly.

Astoria puts a hand on her shoulder. “You poor thing. I know that was special to you.”

“And you!” I cry, rounding on Astoria. “Why are _you_ in here? Is there some bone you have to pick with me, too?”

“Well.” She looks down at her now fully grown cat. “You said he’d do tricks, but he doesn’t.”

I throw up my hands and fall onto Zabini’s bed. There are witchy magazine photos pasted to his bed canopy. Why’d I never think to do that?

And _these_ witches aren’t even done talking at me. Pansy is indignant to be lumped in with this bunch. Daphne wants to know why I chose _her_ reputation to ruin. Astoria is humming “Puttin’ on the Ritz,” to her kneazle, though he seems to be ignoring her, and I can’t take it anymore.

I leap up. “ _One at a time!”_ I cry.

They stop, letting out an offended noise in unison. Except for Astoria. She’s trying to situate her cat in her lap like a little person. For the first time, I notice he’s wearing a bowtie. This girl was going to be my wife?

I don’t know how else to put it. So I just...put it.

“I’m gay!”

Silence.

They explode with laughter.

Pansy wipes her suddenly mirthful eyes, saying to Daphne, “He’s gay, is he? In fifth year, he snuck me into his bedroom at the manor, and when his dad caught us, Draco said we were studying anatomy!”

“In third year,” she replies, “I caught him looking up my skirt in the Quidditch stands, and he claimed he was on the lookout for dementors!”

Astoria finds it helpful to add, “If there are tits in a room, so are Malfoy’s wits!”

They are all cackling, their arms slung around one another. Even Weasley! All right. I can work with this. Despite my mortification.

I clap my hands together, as though in victory, and gesture out the door. “So, great. We’re good. Now’s let us just….”

“No.” Pansy scowls at me. “You’re lying. Stop lying.”

“Is that not an acceptable trait in your House?” Ginny seems to ask genuinely.

“Certainly not lying to one’s best friend. Unless he’s up to something.” She narrows her eyes at me. I think. Her eyes are still so puffy.

All right. I may not get out of this with my secret intact. But what’s the big deal? Pansy hates me. My owl hates me. My dad knows I’m weak. I have no fuck prospects. There’s a kneazle in a tux singing me botched Irving Berlin. And, of course, Potter wants nothing to do with me. Can’t get much worse.

“You’re right, I’m lying,” I say, and before I realize what I am doing, I’m blurting out, “I’m not gay. But I am in love with Harry Potter. And that seems to be the only thing I’m sure of at the moment.”

No laughter this time. Not a sound.

I’m looking at Pansy more than any of them. Hell, I’m kneeling in front of her. I need her to forgive me. As adrift as our friendship has been, I do want her in my life. I care for her deeply. I grab her hand.

“Say something.”

“Draco.” She removes her hand, placing it on my forehead. “Have you been drinking Crabbe’s allergy potions?”

Not the response I was expecting.

“No,” Astoria exclaims. “Oh, sweet Merlin, it makes so much sense now. _He_ asked me to come onto Charlie Weasley! He was trying to break them up. Weren’t you?”

“You did?” Ginny says, aghast. I nod, still looking at Pansy’s lap. “That’s why you asked me out? You were trying to make Harry jealous? But not jealous for _me_. Jealous for _you_.”

My cheeks are hot. I don’t speak. I don’t need to, because Pansy is talking again.

“You wouldn’t...” She looks around the room, blinking back fresh tears. “...you wouldn’t be with me because of...Harry Potter?”

I lift a shoulder, as if to say, _Dunno_.

“But why? How could this have happened?”

Seeing the bewilderment on her face, I feel I must tell her. Why not? I’m numb of humiliation.

Potter’s bits don’t come into it. It’s the same story I told Ron Weasley, but with more emotions and whatnot (because let’s face the demographic I’m talking to), and at the end I’m slumped on the edge of Zabini’s bed and the girls are leaning on each other again, not in mirth at my expense but rapt at what they seem to think is a deeply entrancing fairy tale. All except Pansy.

“Are you serious?” she asks blankly. “Because this is too elaborate to be bullshit, even for you.”

“I’m serious. Wish I weren’t, to be honest.”

“This is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard,” Astoria is saying to her sister, who is nodding back, replying, “He probably spread that rumour about me, so people wouldn’t catch on about Potter! Oh, Merlin, it’s so romantic!”

I look at Weasley, wide eyed. She lunges and hugs me. “You didn’t have to ask me out if you wanted help getting Harry back. I can’t imagine! Being in love with him, and he’s gone at war for a whole _year_? You must have been beside yourself. You could have just said something to me. Oh, Malfoy, I’d have been happy to help, you great git.”

“But...your brother...Charlie.”

“Charlie’s a flight-risk, regardless of you. I _like_ that he and Harry are together, but honestly Charlie’s never been with anyone for more than a few months. He travels constantly for the dragons. And Harry? If I think back, he always did seem more alive when you were around.”

“ _Of course_ ,” Daphne says, “because all they used to do was bicker.”

I don’t care what they think. Again, I’m looking at Pansy with please-say-something eyes.

She heaves a sigh, looking down at her spent tissue. Her voice is quiet, and perhaps only I can hear what she says next. “I don’t know if I should be happy or sad I saved his life, now.”

“You what?”

Pansy sees my worry and waves the tissue. “Nothing, just something silly that happened during the Battle. He assured me you were alive, and in exchange I—” She releases a tight breath, shrugging like nothing unusual was said. “Look, Draco, I don’t like this one bit. But if it had to be someone else...well...this is _,_ by far, the most entertaining option.” Her face softens. Her eyebrows lower like they do when she’s got something up her sleeve. “Shall we get down to business, then?”

“What sort of business?”

“The business of romance. It’s really not your forte, though you try, darling, you try….”

“No, he doesn’t,” Ginny says, “I may as well have been on a date with Madame Puddifoot.”

“Hey, I’m a perfect gentleman,” I exclaim, shooting onto my feet. They all stare. “Well. I’m trained to be, anyway. Fine. What would you have had me do differently, Weasley?”

“Look me in the eye when I’m speaking, first of all.”

Astoria smirks, crossing her arms. “Yes, and by _eye_ I think she means _not-breasts_. Though, I don’t know what you’d be staring at on Potter.”

It used to be his breasts. Now it’s usually his mouth. Damn it, they’re right. Maybe I do need their help.

“What else?”

“Try not to be so crude,” says Daphne.

“But don’t start talking about politics or your family history either,” Pansy says, pretending to gag herself. “You’re not your father, Draco, so don’t try and impersonate him.”

“And stop _dressing_ like your dad, now that she mentions it,” adds Astoria, which makes me squawk and touch my robes like an idiot.

“How should I dress? This is traditional. It looks good.”

“Yeeeaaah,” Ginny says, running her hand along my shoulder to examine my outfit, “those two words don’t belong in the same sentence.”

They’re surrounding me now. And they’re all touching me, pulling off my outer robes and running their fingers through my hair to loosen it. Am I allowed to suggest a fivesome after all my remarkable honesty? Somehow, I don’t see that panning out well.

Astoria, apparently a girl-genius in transfigurations, bewitches my shirt into a fitted blue version, my under-robes into grey vest with a subtle cross-hatching weave, and my trousers into Muggle jeans.

“Look at his arse,” Daphne is whispers to Pansy. “Has he always been so fit?”

“No, I don’t know when that happened.”

Well, I was starting to feel smug before _that_.

Ginny is admiring me, too. “He looks brilliant. You should really come to our study group, Astoria. Hermione would love to talk to you about Transfigurations.”

“Oh, really? I’ve always liked her, but never thought she’d want anything to do with me.”

I clear my throat, since the subject seems to be veering away from _Draco’s_ needs. “Are we finished here? Make eye contact. Don’t be boring. Dress like a ponce. And Potter will fall into my arms?”

Pansy is looking at me like I’m a child. “All that, plus leave him the fuck alone.”

“What do you mean? I hardly speak to him at all.”

“Draco, if I know you, you’ve been badgering him ever since you found out he was with Weasley. You’re a spoiled brat, and you don’t like not getting your way. Tell me I’m wrong.” She lifts her nose challengingly.

“Hmph,” I say, glaring out the window as the squid floats by. “Fine, whatever. I’m not anymore, though. I promised him I’d leave him alone, and that’s what I intend to do.”

“Good, continue with that. But moreover: don’t make eyes at him, don’t speak to him unless he speaks to you, and, since it’s clearly upsetting to Potter, don’t even pursue him _passively_ —in other words, trying to make him jealous. _Play hard to get_. That’s the best way to get someone to come back to you.”

I’m left wondering if Pansy was playing hard to get with me in sixth year when she began ignoring me in favour of Theodore Nott. But that’s in the past. Our friendship is on the mend, and I won’t question her now. I do hug her tight and thank her for understanding.

 

***

 

On Monday, I’m strutting into the Great Hall dressed in _jeans_ of all things and nodding at Ginny across the way. She waves, and sets about telling everyone in a three foot radius what an amicable break up we had and letting them know that the next person who dates me will be very lucky. I’m starting to like Weasleys. Can’t believe I just said that.

I thrust out my hand to greet Zabini good morning. He leans back, perturbed, and suspiciously places his hand in mine. Then I set about making my plate as if I’m ravished, and small-talking my Housemates, and laughing at Crabbe’s dumb jokes, and generally being the most charming version of myself. From the corner of my eye, I can see Potter’s glasses glinting in my direction; not only is this the first time he’s seen me in days, it’s the first time most of the school year I’ve shown up well rested, highly groomed, and apparently happy. It’s difficult beyond measure not to make eye-contact, but I resist, trying to appear like my contentment has to do with everything in the world except for him.

A letter arrives.

“And where have you been?” I ask Diablo, plucking a piece of parchment off his foot. “I’m not happy with you. You won’t find any treats here.”

When I say this, Zabini hunches over his plate and starts wolfing down his muffin.

I unfold the parchment. By the end of the letter, I’ve nearly choked on my own muffin.

> Draco,
> 
> I’m in Las Vegas on business, so you’ll have to excuse the irony of my next statement. Have you been drinking? Do go easy on that stuff, and keep your wits about you. You’re representing us in Britain, for Merlin’s sake.
> 
> About your problem, with the recent article in the _Daily Prophet_ and the hints you dropped in your whiskey-scented letter, I have a hunch who your love interest is. Rest assured, I now have sufficient contacts in the magical creatures industry that a dragon trainer should be easy enough to woo away from Miss Greengrass. By the time you receive this, your problem should already be solved. (And don’t be so hard on yourself. Girls often fall over themselves for older men. You’ll benefit from that someday.)
> 
> Meanwhile, get back to your studies. Despite my initial presentation, I didn’t send you back to Hogwarts just to moon over a skirt.
> 
> —Dad

I don’t know if I’m more disturbed by the contents of the letter or the fact that there are glitter particles stuck to the backside. But I’m not thinking about glitter as much as one statement: _By the time you receive this, your problem should already be solved._ What does that mean?

Charlie Weasley is at the head table with ham in one fist and the newspaper in the other. I gather my father doesn’t mean to _off_ him with a dragon. The only other thing I can think of is that he means to offer Weasley an irresistible job in the dragon industry—something far away from Hogwarts to ensure he’s out of my hair. My heart skips a beat. In a way, this is good. Yesterday, Ginny told me her brother was a flight-risk, always running off for the dragons. He’s bound to accept such an offer. But Ron’s threat hangs over my head: _if you keep trying to manipulate Harry, I’ll tell him what’s going on._ If a job offer from Lucius Malfoy doesn’t look like manipulation, I don’t know what does. Shit.

At that moment, a bald eagle glides into the Great Hall. It is so distinctive, with its golden beak and sheer white head and enormous wingspan, that most people stop eating to look. I know it’s for me, but not. It’s headed straight for Charlie. I can’t breathe.

Crabbe jabs me in the shoulder. “What’s wrong, Draco? You look pale.”

“How can you tell?” asks Zabini.

Charlie lowers his paper. He cocks his head, his cheek bulging with his last bite. When the eagle perches on the arm of his chair, he hands it the last of his ham and hunches over an official-looking sheet of cardstock parchment.

I shoot up. I have to get to Ron before he learns the news.

Astoria notices, hissing, “Hey, what are you doing? Don’t go over there!”

“Got to...ask Granger something…about Potions….”

“Oh, no you don’t!”

I shake her off my arm. Pansy’s on the other side of the table, and can’t reach far enough to grab me. I’m walking as fast as I can without running. Now Charlie is springing up, his mouth spreading out with glee, and he’s got no reason not to run. He’s headed right for Potter.

 _No, no, no_. I pick up my feet.

I’m closer than he is. I can make it. I’ll just pull Weasley and Granger aside and be honest. That’s what Gryffindors like, right? Honesty? I can do it, I can—

Another Weasley intercepts me.

“Oh, I forgot you wanted to meet up and talk some more,” Ginny says loudly, taking me by the shoulder and steering me away. She gives me a funny look, whispering, “Don’t be so obvious, Draco.”

“But—” I crane over my shoulder. Charlie is leaning over Potter, waving the letter and babbling. I can’t very well make a scene, so I let Ginny steer me into the entrance hall. No one is taking notice of us, especially not Potter, who is standing and throwing his arms around his boyfriend’s neck, nor Weasley and Granger, who have their heads together and are whispering.

I am well and truly fucked.

By the time class starts, my blood pressure is sky high. What am I going to do? Weasley and Granger clearly know what’s going on! But Potter and Charlie are lingering on the walk to Hagrid’s hut, their heads bowed over the parchment, so it seems they don’t know of my involvement yet.

Now that Spring and sun are shining, the weather bubble is gone. I’m struggling to remain cool in these ridiculous new clothes as Granger nods towards me.

“Malfoy!” she says, taking out her wand.

“Wait, wait!” I hold up both hands, realizing I look desperate but knowing I have to get this out as fast as possible if I want a chance at redemption. “I can explain.”

“You certainly _should_ explain, because I was under the impression—”

“I was drunk! Drunk, all right? I don’t even _remember_ writing to my father, but apparently I complained to him about a dragon trainer and now he thinks I’m in love with Astoria Greengrass because of that bloody article, and he took it upon himself to offer Charlie that job, and it’s not my fault! I swear, I didn’t know. Just _don’t_ tell Harry. Weasley,” I bark, turning to him, “I swear, I didn’t do it on purpose. You’ve got to believe me.”

He’s looking between me and Granger like a lost dog. “Malfoy, what are you on about?”

“The—” I point to Charlie. “The job thing.”

“Right,” he says slowly. “That’s because of you?”

“You didn’t know?”

Granger’s mouth has become a thin line. She waves her wand. A stack of parchment appears, which she thrusts at me.

“I was just coming to give you all my Potions notes. You’ve missed too many classes, and if my partner fails, Snape will lower my marks, too.”

“Oh, right.”

Weasley has crossed his arms, his freckles popping out as he flexes. “Tell me what this has to do with you and your dad. And Harry.”

I close my eyes and drop my head. _Bugger_.

 

***

 

Harry is stroking the scars on Charlie’s chest. They’ve been dating for months, and he still finds himself fascinated. The scars spindle over one pectoral and shoulder like a fleshy web, looking almost like a pink tattoo, the result of being clawed on his left side repeatedly. The right side is pristine. Charlie holds that side away from the dragons, so his wand arm is always free. Harry likes the asymmetry. He finds it masculine and effortlessly charming, like Charlie himself.

“Have you been thinking about the job?” Harry asks, trailing his finger down Charlie’s arm.

“Not as much as other things.” He lifts his eyebrows suggestively.

“Careful, I might have to keep you up all night again.”

“You wouldn’t hear me complaining,” he murmurs, sitting up and kissing Harry on the neck.

Charlie heads to the kitchen. It’s not really a kitchen. The inside of his tent has been expanded with magic to be about the size of a small cabin or a large bedroom. The “kitchen” is in the centre, and contains a table, a round of rocks with coals where Charlie heats coffee and tea, and a little ice chest, which apparently keeps ice forever cold despite not being electric. The tent perimeter is adorned with hanging bits and bobs: Charlie’s laundry, a boar-tooth necklace he never wears, a picture Ginny drew of him when she was small (featuring Charlie riding a ferocious dragon over a band of warriors with snake-heads), and dried herbs, fish, and rabbit jerky, which Charlie had been trading with the Centaurs for bows and arrows during the cold season. Harry finds that disturbing, but less because of the bows and arrows and more because Centaurs are so intense he doesn’t like to think about Charlie trekking out into their territory.

Charlie digs in the cooler and pulls out two brown bottles marked Romanian Strong Black, offering one to Harry.

He shakes his head, saying, “It’s just—it’s a good opportunity for you. You said you’ve been finding dragon jobs hard to come by, and I know you don’t want to be here taking care of flobberworms forever.”

“I know,” Charlie sighs. He presses the flat of his hand onto the bottle’s head, pushes, and twists off the cap with his flesh alone. He drinks.

Harry reaches for the bedside table, really an upside down wooden crate, and picks up the parchment.

> Dear Mr Weasley,
> 
> Greetings from the Death Valley Dragon Conservatory!
> 
> I’m writing to you straight from the Fangs and Fire Convention in Las Vegas, where I just met one of the conservatory’s investors. His name escapes me. I blame the free margaritas! He told me he saw you caretaking dragons at the 1994 Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts and strongly recommended you for an opening in our flagship program. I should tell you what that program is! It’s a reintroduction program. We need a skilled set of hands to lead our team in reintroducing a fine set of American captive-bred dragons back into Death Valley, the Sierra Nevada mountains, and the national forests in between. I’ve checked your work history, and I’ll be blunt: I’d like that set of hands to be yours, my friend.
> 
> What do you say? For the dragons? They’re really cool, except when they’re hot. Floo me any weekday between 9 and 5, Pacific Standard, and we’ll set up an interview.
> 
> Sunny Martinez  
>  VP  
>  Death Valley Dragon Conservatory

“I can easily see you doing this,” Harry says, sitting on his knees excitedly.

Charlie smiles, but the wrinkles on his eyes don’t quite show. “And what are you going to do after school?”

“Me? Dunno, I thought I might take Kingsley up on his offer.”

“So, Auroring, then? You’d have to stay in Britain to do that.”

“Yeah, at least while I’m training. But I heard they have assignments overseas.”

“Nah. You’d be here more than likely. Those jobs are rare. Plus, you’re their poster child.”

Harry grimaces at the sentiment. “But what does that have to do with you and the conservatory? It’s a great opportunity, no matter what I do.”

“Well, I don’t exactly want to leave you, do I?”

Charlie’s got his bare bum against the kitchen table, one ankle crossed over the other, sipping his beer, staring at Harry. Harry doesn’t know what to say. He’d never thought himself a consideration in Charlie’s plans, in anyone’s plans, and it’s flattering and embarrassing and confusing. He smiles slowly. It’s all he can think to do. Charlie gives one of those stomach-flipping winks, crosses his arms, and cocks his head.

“I haven’t been this happy in a very long time, Harry. This job at Hogwarts has helped me to be near my family, and when I’m with you, things are so easy.” He looks at Harry for a long moment, sighs, and says, “I love you, you know.”

Harry loses his breath. No one’s ever said that to him before.

Charlie walks forward, his toes curling in the dirt floor, his fingers gripping the slick glass of the bottle, and leans against the steel railing of the bed. “I got another job offer. From McGonagall. Hagrid’s looking to retire next year. The leg’s taking a lot out of him. She offered me his teaching position.”

“So, you’d get to be officially in charge of the flobberworms.”

He laughs roughly. He swigs the beer, eyes sparkling down at Harry, and wipes his mouth and smells of liquor when he speaks again.

“I’m sure I’d get some extra discretion if I were the head professor. Thought I could bring miniature dragons on the scene, maybe even offer an extra course for aspiring trainers. I know I would have loved it as a kid.”

“That sounds really cool.”

Charlie nods, looking out the tent’s tiny window into the distance. Harry thinks he’s looking at the mountains, but he can’t tell without his glasses.

“I still don’t think it’s what you want, though,” he says carefully. “I think you want adventure. That’s why you like training dragons. The thrill of it. You wouldn’t get that here.”

“I’d get other things.”

There’s a hole forming in Harry’s stomach. All the feelings he wants to express seem to be disappearing into it, and it’s making him sick. Even though he’s still sitting on the bed, he puts a steadying hand on Charlie’s bare thigh, his head on Charlie’s stomach, and smells the heady, comforting scent of him.

Maybe Harry should just _say_ he’s not going to become an Auror, just _imply_ a little bit that he’ll go to America, too. That way, Charlie will make an unbiased decision. He’s not even sure he wants to be an Auror, anyway. He just doesn’t know what else he’s qualified to do. Honestly, it’d be nice to get away from Britain, see the other side of the world, avoid the stressors at home, never mind that the only stressors right now are whether or not Draco Malfoy has started dressing like a _Wizard’s GQ_ centrefold to get his attention. That’s _really_ hard to deal with. And really confusing for Harry! But Charlie isn’t confusing. He’s consistent. And handsome and strong and protective and doesn’t care that Harry has a penis. He wants to be with someone like that.

“Harry,” Charlie says, setting down the bottle. He kneels and runs large, calloused hands up Harry’s forearms. He looks into Harry’s eyes. “You still haven’t said whether you love me back.”

 

***

 

It’s late when Harry climbs through the portrait hole. He’s surprised to find Ron and Hermione alone in the common room snogging. When the hole shuts, they jump, smiling in embarrassment.

“We didn’t expect you tonight,” Ron says, brushing back his hair.

“Charlie and I broke up.”

Hermione makes a despairing noise. She hurries over and pulls Harry into a hug. He can’t see through her hair as she leads him to the sofa, where he thinks Ron is making room. Hermione sits cross-legged on an ottoman and Ron leans forward with his elbows on his knees as Harry tells them all about it.

“Was I wrong to say that?” he asks in the end, twirling a fiber poking out of the hem of his shirt.

“No,” Hermione says. “You can’t tell someone you love them if you don’t.”

“So, he’s just going to run off now?” Ron asks. “Typical.”

Harry shrugs. He’s fanning the pages of a Quidditch magazine, still awkward talking to Ron about his romantic life, especially since it concerns his brother.

“I told him he shouldn’t wait for me to catch up to his feelings...that he’d resent me in the end if he said no to the job in the States and things didn’t work out between us. So, yeah, he’s going to floo the fellow tomorrow and hopefully head out there straight away.”

“What about Hagrid?” Hermione asks indignantly.

“We thought of that. I told him I’d help Hagrid whenever I can. I really wanted him to go. Not just because we’re broken up now, but because the job’s going to be good for him.”

Ron is nodding, thumbs twiddling. “Good of you, mate. We’ll help out, too.”

“Thanks.” He lets out a sad laugh. “You’ll probably never invite me to a family gathering again after this.”

“What? Harry, you’re as much my family as Charlie is. And he’s cool, you know that. He won’t care.”

“Hope not.”

Ron and Hermione are trading a look. Harry can tell he’s getting in their way, so he smacks Ron lightly with the magazine and hops up.

“I should get to bed. Hey, at least it wasn’t Malfoy breaking us up in the end, right?”

Harry pauses, and curses his mistake. _Ron_ doesn’t know about him and Malfoy. And he hasn’t exactly told Hermione about his kiss with Malfoy either.

He quickly adds, “You know, cause he was being an arsehole to Charlie at first. Probably just hated seeing me happy. Er, goodnight.”

But instead of answering, their eye contact is getting more intense. Hermione sees him looking, and clears her throat. Ron suddenly finds one of the tapestries fascinating.

Harry narrows his eyes. “What?”

Ron waves a hand, picking up the magazine like he’s just remembered an interesting article. “Nothing, mate, just tired.”

“You know something don’t you? Is it about—” He thinks _Malfoy_ , but he says, “Charlie?” He turns to Hermione. “You wouldn’t lie to me. What’s going on?”

Her cheeks are pinching up with guilt. “Malfoy’s been trying to break you two up all term. He hired Astoria Greengrass to try and sleep with Charlie. And that’s the reason he went out with Ginny, apparently. To make you jealous. _And_ he’s the reason for Charlie’s out-of-the-blue job offer. He was trying…” She heaves a sigh, as if she isn’t sure she wants to tell Harry this tidbit. “He was trying to win you back.”

Harry is shocked silent. He doesn’t want to believe that Malfoy would be so backhanded, but it sounds all too much like him, the old Malfoy who would play any number of tricks to get his way. His heart clenches; whether it’s in fury, or affection towards Malfoy’s dedication to winning him back, or some fucked up mixture of both, he can’t tell.

“How do you know all that?” he asks softly.

“He may have told us,” Ron mutters.

Harry double takes, feeling his face drain of colour. “ _Ron_. How long have _you_ known about us? And why haven’t you said anything? And...hold on! Is that why you’ve been so keen on Malfoy this term? Were you _that_ uncomfortable with me dating your brother?”

“Now, wait just a moment,” Ron says, standing to Harry’s level. “You’re nutters if you think that. I got over you and Charlie about five minutes after it started. And Malfoy...I don’t know. Just thought I’d give him a chance, like you two have been nagging me to do for bloody ever.”

“You still should have told me! And this job. It might not even be real, you think? Maybe if—”

Harry looks at the portrait hole, wondering if this news will be the difference between Charlie and him staying together or not.

Hermione puts a hand on his shoulder. “Harry, you just said the breakup had more to do with you and Charlie than the new job. And it’s not like _Malfoy_ made you tell Charlie you didn’t love him. So calm down and listen.”

He sits. She’s right. He’s just emotional from the split.

“ _Honestly_ , do you really think we’d help Malfoy plot against you?” she says. “We only just found out. The other day in the common room, that’s the real reason why he was here. He was confiding in us, and he promised not to try and break you up anymore. Perhaps it had more to do with him not wanting Ron to bash him in the stomach again, but….” She looks at Ron, pursing her lips fondly.

Harry turns to Ron. “You did that for _me_?”

“Well. And Ginny. You ungrateful arse.”

Harry smiles, feeling a little silly to have been suspicious of Ron. Then he realizes something. “How much did he say to you?”

“I don’t reckon I know _every_ detail,” Ron says, rubbing the back of his neck, which is getting to be the same shade as his hair. “Now if it were a tall, blond _girl_ you had a history with, perhaps then I’d be interested in conquest stories.”

They laugh, and sit in silence that is only a touch awkward. Harry’s head is spinning with images of Malfoy sitting on this very sofa confessing to his best friends his feelings and promising not to pursue Harry dishonestly anymore, for fear of hurting his feelings. It makes him feel warm, if he’s honest, if disturbed at the idea that Malfoy had blatantly refused to see that Harry was trying to heal and move on.

“I think the job offer is real,” Ron says. “Malfoy’s dad works for the Department of Magical Creatures, now.”

“Right, the conservatory investor,” Harry says under his breath. “But why would his dad go through all that trouble to break me and Charlie up? I know he hates me, but this is so petty....”

“I don’t think Lucius Malfoy was trying to break you up with your boyfriend, mate. I think he just knew Draco loved someone...and was trying to get that someone back.”

“Loved someone? Loved _me_? He doesn’t love me, he couldn’t even—” He shares a look with Hermione, and in the warmth of her eyes he can see that she’s thinking about the same thing: Harry’s body-change a year ago and his feelings for Malfoy that went unreturned once Malfoy realized Harry was completely male. He looks at Ron, saying before he can help himself, “Do you know _why_ Draco and I broke up?”

“Well, yeah. He didn’t want to date another bloke openly, right?”

Harry nods slowly, but Ron is not stupid. He cocks an eyebrow.

“Is there something I’m missing?”

Hermione is examining her fingernails, while Harry can’t think of a cover for the life of him.

“What?” Ron asks. “Come on, I’m tired of all these secrets.”

Hermione gives Harry a look that says, _It’s an awfully big secret to keep from your best friend_. He rather agrees. Even if he keeps quiet, Ron will act resentful that Hermione clearly knows he and doesn’t. And, honestly, he’s so used to the subject now that he doesn’t even think it’s that weird anymore.

Harry gathers his thoughts and tells Ron the story of how, once upon a time, he had a vagina.

Ron doesn’t stir the whole time. He stares into the fire with that face he gets when he’s contemplating his next chess move. When Harry finishes, saying, “And that’s why he really broke up with me,” with a traceable note of bitterness he can’t believe still exists, he sits, and feels nauseous, and waits for his friend’s reaction.

“Bugger,” Ron says distantly. “So much makes sense now.”

“Er. Pardon?”

“Yeah. Yeah, the fact that you would never change your clothes in front of us, growing up. We all just thought you were shy. And you were so _small_ , such a runt, Harry.” He grins, holding up his hand, as if to indicate Harry had been the size of a house-elf.

“Well, not everyone can see the tops of trees,” Harry exclaims.

“And your growth spurt happened literally overnight! That weirded me out something fierce. I mean, I already knew your _hair_ grew faster than most people’s, but this was something different. But it all adds up. I’m glad there’s an explanation.”

“You’re _glad_?”

“No,” he says, giving Harry a look of remorse. “I mean, not that this _happened_ to you. Sounded like an ordeal, mate. And to have to keep that secret all those years? I’m sorry. But now you’re okay, right?”

“I guess.”

Really, Harry doesn’t know. Some mornings he wakes up and the presence of his penis alarms him until he remembers what happened. He even has dreams about sleeping with Malfoy and he still has a vagina in those fantasies; it’s like sex can only exist between them if Malfoy is invading him and looking right cocky doing it. Not to say Harry’s penis is completely unwelcome. Charlie seemed to like it, and Harry felt pretty good about that, not like when he thinks about _Malfoy_ in that context; it may have helped their sex life that he never told Charlie about his strangely gendered past. And masturbating, while it is far more taxing on the arm as a male, is different in a way Harry appreciates: from the arousal he feels getting to see physically that he is turned on, to the strange strength of his groin muscles contracting, drawing up his balls, to the curiosity of witnessing his orgasm before his eyes, sticky and white on his stomach. That is all very nice. But it is nice like a pleasant dream. Sometimes, he wishes he could wake up and get back to real life.

He is so lost in thought that he just notices Ron and Hermione are arguing.

“—you please tell me you’re joking, Ron? That’s really insensitive.”

“I’m not joking! If you sprouted a willie tomorrow, I dunno if I could deal with it. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I don’t like blokes—orwhat they have in their trousers. I like you the way you are.”

“So, you think Malfoy was right to treat Harry the way he did?”

“I’m not talking about the way he _treated_ Harry. I’m talking about preferences, which aren’t right or wrong. Malfoy can’t help what he likes, just like I can’t. Just like _you_ can’t, for Merlin’s sake. What if my thing fell off and you were suddenly dating a girl?”

Although Hermione seems to see his point, she is shifting uncomfortably on the ottoman. Harry appreciates her going to bat for him, from her doggedly helping him avoid Malfoy this year to her indignation at Ron’s words, and he touches her elbow to let her know. But he agrees with Ron on this one.

“I think he has a point, Hermione. I don’t blame Malfoy for not wanting another bloke. Doesn’t mean I wasn’t hurt, of course….”

Ron is looking at him, close to bewildered. “Seems like he thinks he made a mistake, though. I mean, he obviously knows _now_ you’re not a girl down there, and he doesn’t seem to be closing his eyes and humming about it.”

“What are you getting at?”

“That Malfoy likes you. _This_ you. No, wait. He quite clearly, _pathetically_ likes you. It’s sad to watch, if I’m honest.”

“Well, it wasn’t worth leaving Charlie to risk being with him, knowing he might throw me aside on a whim again. Plus, I liked being with Charlie.”

“But you’re not with Charlie anymore.”

Hermione’s eyebrows are rising up her forehead. “Why are you so eager to get Harry and Malfoy together?”

“I’m not! I’m eager for Harry to be happy. He’s been through a lot. The tosser deserves it.”

Even though Ron is talking about him like he’s not in the room, Harry finds himself smiling uncontrollably.

Ron notices, and starts rubbing the back of his neck again. “Do you know what you’re going to do, then?”

Harry sighs, looking into the dying fire. He’s tired of big decisions.

 

***

 

So, he doesn’t make a decision. He lets his gut do it for him. That always seems to work out for the best. Except when it doesn’t. That’s beside the point. The point is: today when he enters Great Hall for dinner, he looks Draco Malfoy in the eye for the first time in a dozen days, and walks straight for him.

Pansy Parkinson is tapping someone on the shoulder, one of the Greengrass girls. From Harry’s periphery, it seems both Greengrass girls are watching him with wide eyes. But Draco is serene as he stares at Harry. It’s lucky he’s on the edge of the table, close to the doors, because Harry is somehow out of breath already. He stops, steels himself, and says the first thing that pops into his head.

“I should punch you in the face.”

Draco looks taken aback, but doesn’t move a muscle. “I should hope you won’t.”

“Was this you?” Harry pulls out a postcard Charlie has already owled him. It’s from the Death Valley Dragon Conservatory gift shop and all Charlie scrawled on it was, ‘ _SO HOT! Miss you, C_.’ He shoves the scenic canyon-scape under Draco’s nose. “Did your dad get him this job?”

Draco looks at Parkinson. Harry can’t read their communication. He turns back, eyes blank, and says, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

He seems to want to turn back to his roast chicken but won’t until Harry is appeased: his hands are lightly clasped, his posture forward, almost inviting, and his eyebrows are soft, and the whole picture is certainly attractive, what with those broad shoulders in that expensive-looking shirt and vest; but Harry, for the life of him, was expecting something more explosive than this to be occurring.

“Well, we broke up,” he blurts. “I mean. Not because of the job. Some other reason. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

Harry looks over his shoulder at his own friends now. Ron is eyeing him, whispering something to Hermione. Ginny is grinning at someone across the room. One of the Greengrasses? He’s even more confused. This isn’t going how he planned, but considering there was no plan, only his Gryffindor uninhibitedness, he guesses that’s okay.

“Okay,” Harry says. “I guess that’s all.” He turns on his heel.

“Hey.”

A chair scrapes back. A girl whispers, “Hold on, hold on,” but there are footsteps and before they approach him, Harry knows who they belong to. He turns around. Draco is a step away, looking full with longing, the calm facade having washed away. He lips are parting, but nothing is coming out.

“Yes?” Harry prompts.

“I…”

“Well, it’s time we were off to the library,” someone says. It’s Parkinson, taking Draco by the arm. He blinks at her, and she gives him a significant look. “Remember? We have to solve that Arithmancy equation that’s just so _hard to get_?”

He heaves a sigh. “Fine, you’re right.”

“I disagree!” A Greengrass with a kneazle is shuffling up, taking Draco by the other arm. “I think he should finish his dinner. It’s going so well. The dinner.”

“Finish his—?” Pansy glowers at _Harry_ for some reason. What does Harry have to do with some ruddy of chicken and potatoes? “We agreed it was best for Draco if there was no dinner-finishing anytime soon.”

“Well, sometimes a meal goes smoother than expected!”

“That’s a good point,” exclaims the other Greengrass girl.

“Aw, we never agree on anything, Daphne.”

Okay, now they are hugging, and Harry has just realized the kneazle is wearing a top hat, and this half of the Great Hall is staring at them all like they’re bonkers, and Harry feels rather like he’s on display at a museum even though he doesn’t think he has anything to do with what’s happening in front of him.

“Well, what about dessert?”

Harry turns around. “ _Ginny_?”

“No! No dessert,” Parkinson is saying, stamping her foot. “It’s not good for him.”

“But sometimes you can’t _help_ having dessert. Sometimes you’ve _got_ to eat dessert because it’s looking right—at—you.” Ginny is looking at Draco, tossing her head in Harry’s direction, widening her eyes.

“Er,” Harry says.

Meanwhile, Draco looks to be contemplating the likelihood he could get away with murdering four girls in the middle of the Great Hall.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake!” Ginny cries. “If Malfoy won’t do it, then you should, Harry.”

“Do what?”

She puts two hands on his shoulders and shoves him at Draco. He stumbles, clutches Draco’s shoulders—which, he confirms, feel as nice as they look—and blinks up at him. Draco looks caught between wanting to melt into a puddle and excuse himself back to the dinner he’s apparently forbidden to consume.

“Oy, leave Harry alone! He doesn’t have to do anything if he doesn’t want to.”

That would be Ron. He and Hermione gather up around Ginny, giving her peculiar looks.

“That’s right, he doesn’t have to,” Draco says, though his arms are no less tight around Harry’s middle and his eyes haven’t left Harry’s face for a second.

Harry’s mouth falls open. “No! I do have to! I mean...I _want_ to.”

“You want to?”

“I do,” he says quietly. He looks around. All eyes are on them. Snape and McGonagall have started to billow down the rows, moaning about what all the commotion is about. “But not here. Not like this.”

“Right.” Draco licks his lips. For a moment, Harry thinks Draco will kiss him anyway. Then he says, “Well, get off my toes and let’s go, then.”

Harry smiles.

 

***

 

Wherever Harry’s taking me, I don’t care. Because he’s taking me there.

He glances over his shoulder as he pulls me through the trees. He starts to speak. No! No speaking, damn it. I kiss him again. Can’t seem to stop. So sweet, so Harry.

He pulls back, eyes closed. “We’ll never make it if you keep doing that.”

“Where are we going?” I whisper.

He takes my hand again, leading me over a footbridge that crosses a stream, and just as the Forbidden Forest is going from maroon to purple in the sunset, I find myself at the infamous tent. I should pitch a fit, but I want him, and I want him to have no reservations about that. It’s a space I would describe to Pansy with a smirk and the word _charming_ ; there are fish carcasses and antlers hanging from the ceiling, for Merlin’s sake, and Muggle weapons, too. And a bed, the very bed I’ve dreamt of sending up in flames if only I knew where in the forest it was located. Now I do know, but ironically I need the stupid thing.

Harry pulls me past it to a woolly rug in front of a round of stones with embers in the centre, and settles us down, making a guilty face.

“He left this to me for the school year, so I’d have someplace to come think. I hope this is okay. I mean, it’s private, and—”

I kiss him. Charlie Weasley is not going to cockblock me from across the world.

Harry’s head is on the rug now. I must have gotten hasty. I don’t even recall pinning his wrists next to his ears. There’s something so different about intimacy now versus two years ago, and I don’t mean the genitalia. I’m not rutting like a dog, for one. For two, the novelty is gone, replaced by the calm feeling of familiarity. It’s wonderful falling right back into place.

He wraps his arms round me, pulling me flush, smiling against my mouth, and I’m smiling back until I feel his hardness. Like that day after the Battle, I’m shocked. The familiarity is dashed. I try not to show alarm, but he stops the kiss, rubbing his hands up and down my back.

“Draco,” he says sadly. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

I nod. It’s difficult. I’m shaking. Fuck, I’m an imbecile. Five minutes in, and I’m already disappointing him.

He shushes me. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. We can stop.”

He shifts his weight, so I slide off his body, and holds my head to his chest. I close my eyes, as his fingers stroke through my hair. What’s wrong with me? This isn’t a surprise. I thought I was prepared. It’s not as though I’m repulsed; I’m confused. There should be no thinking involved in this.

“I’m sorry,” I croak. “I’m such a fool. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re not a fool. I’m a fool.” He’s staring hard at the ceiling. “You can’t help what you like. Or don’t like.”

“No.” I shoot up, bracing my arms on either side of his head. “I like you! I might even lo—” I bite my lip. “I don’t want to talk about that right now. But I want you, every bit of you. This is just new, you know? I’m out of my element, in a place I never thought I’d be, but I’ve thought about this. I swear. I’ve fantasized about it. With you. Many times.”

“You’ve fantasized about me...like this?”

“Yes,” I finally admit. To myself and to him.

The dreams, all those dreams, when Harry appeared with no genitalia—lies. Lies I created to shelter myself. Before returning to Hogwarts, I dreamed I pushed up his school girl's skirt, plunged my hand into his knickers, and found nothing. Truly, there had been no vagina. Truly, there had been a long, hard cock, which looked more like my own than I cared to admit. Except I’d blocked it out, replacing it with doll-flesh and denial. I dreamed of my father’s study, of Potter writhing before me wearing diamonds and pearls, the firelight glowing in his eyes before I bent him over and pounded into his arse, and there had been a dick in that dream, as well. That _thump, thump, thump_. That was the sound of it slapping the underside of the desk as I fucked him. I just hadn’t wanted to hear it, hadn’t wanted it to be there at all, but at the time it was a denial worth nourishing. For what? My false sense of security, no doubt. My simplified notions of manhood, for how could I, Draco Malfoy, be The Man if there were another dick in the room to compete with? After each dream, when I opened my eyes, I knew the truth. I’d dreamt of fucking Harry. Harry with a penis.

And here he is now.

He’s sitting up. We both are, legs crossed.

“I want you,” I say quietly, watching the embers cast soft light onto his cheeks, reminded of that haunting dream. “But I need your help.”

“You’re quite sure?”

“Absolutely.”

He gives a twitch of a smile, coming forward on his hands and knees. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I’m not going to want to stop,” I say, as his mouth meets mine.

I sit up on my knees, clutching his hips, and when his erection bumps mine, this time I throw my head back with laughter.

He pushes me onto my back. “You are so bad,” he says crawling over me, as slinky as he ever was.

“Tell me how bad.”

“So bad I might not let you fuck me. I might just suck your cock all night instead.”

“Anything but that.”

He shucks off my trousers. The woolly rug is itchy on my arse, not that I much notice. He’s smelling my cock— _smelling_ it, closing his eyes, opening his mouth in desire, and rubbing his hands up my thighs as he nuzzles my balls. Fucking gorgeous sight. I thread my fingers into his hair, holding back so it doesn’t obscure his face.

“You like that?”

“Love it,” he says, dragging his tongue up the crease of my balls. “I missed it.”

“Tell me more.”

“God, I just want to gag on it, Draco. I want to lick off all your precum, and put your cock in my mouth, and let you fuck my face till I’m gagging with come.”

“Yes,” I moan. I’m trying to pull him towards my cock, but he’s not budging, just lapping at my balls. Bless him, though—he remembers how I like dirty talk. He remembers how I like him fawning over my cock, and I’m thankful there’s no reason that should have changed. He’s so lovely looking back at me, his arse high, his face low. Don’t recall when his glasses and clothes came off, but no matter, his mouth is on the tip, those wet, cock-teasing lips, the little slut. “Suck my dick,” I say.

“You never were patient.”

“Suck that fucking dick,” I laugh, pulling his head down.

He submits to it, accepting my cockhead into his mouth, salivating, staring into my eyes. So gorgeous. So hot. I want to get as close to the sight as possible, but am not terribly flexible and my shirt flaps fall towards my cock when I lean forward, mucking up my view. I wail my annoyance and sit up, yanking the shirt off, and stay bent at the waist with my hand on his head. It’s too much already.

“I’m going to come. Harry, stop, I’m going to come.”

“Come for me,” he whispers, and goes back down.

“No, it’s been too long, I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck the shit out of you. Is that…? Can I do that?”

He pops off, looking pleased and relaxed. “Yes, you can.”

He stretches up to kiss me. I groan into his mouth, rolling him onto his back. I’m in between his legs, grasping at my dick, wanting in, and though it takes some prodding, as if I’m a virgin again, I find the place that gives under my dick. Harry’s hands are there, slapping me away.

“Do I go around shoving things in your arse?” he complains.

“But you said—”

“Just hold on.” He gropes for his wand. “ _Accio lube_!”

Nothing happens. He pushes me up and goes to check the bedside table.

“He took it. Can’t he go a day without—?”

A hand goes into his hair. He glances around the space that I suppose passes for a kitchen. He nicks a bottle of olive oil.

“So, at least your dick will go well with garlic after this,” he mutters.

I say nothing. I’m laying on my back with my hands behind my head. He’s spreading oil onto my erection, and it’s becoming a rather luxurious handjob. I feel like a king. My eyes flutter closed. Merlin, why did I ever walk away from him?

“Now can I fuck you?” I whisper, practically asleep.

“No, I think I’ll fuck you.”

My eyes snap open. He’s facing away from me, crouching, sticking my dick between his arse cheeks. His flesh is spreading around it, the hole so warm, so slick. Without warning, he sinks down to the base.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I say, sliding my hands up the back of his arse, stopping to pry apart the cheeks. The base of my dick looks huge in there. The oil is sexy beneath my fingers. I rub it around the edges of his taut hole. I want something more.

“Face me,” I say. “I want to see you.”

He throws a mystified expression over his shoulder, and then breaks into a smile.

It takes a moment, but now he’s facing me, kissing me, his arms around my head, drawing my hair forward in his passion. I guess I’ve said something significant. I just wanted to see my dick enter him from the front with that flush he gets on his thighs and that rapturous expression that overcomes him, but he’s under the impression I’m being sentimental. It’s sweet. And maybe I am sentimental but don’t know it. He’s staring at me, his eyes gentle; the affection he’s radiating makes the feeling of him wrapped around me all the more intense. All right, I’m sentimental. He’s got me. He’s got me however he wants me. I’m not going to tell him, though.

I’m sitting up. My arms are anchored behind me for stability. He’s fucking himself with abandon, thighs wide, muscular, and pink like I wanted. His small honey lips are parted. His hair is curling with sweat.

“You’re beautiful,” I find myself saying.

He makes a self-deprecating face. “I’m not. I’m a boy.”

“You’re a beautiful boy. If you weren’t, you think I’d get this hard for you?”

He snorts, presses his forehead to mine. “You think so?”

“Oh, yes.” I mean it. Of course, his body gripping my cock makes it a hundred times easier to express. “God, yes, you’re so beautiful. I’ve always thought so. Will you come on my dick?”

“Mm.”

“Is that nice? Is that cock nice?”

“Yes, Draco.” He says this half like he’s turned on and half like he thinks I’m an idiot. I don’t care. I flop onto my back, grab his hips, and fuck up into him, my eyes wide at the sight of him fisting his erection.

It’s sexy. My God, it’s actually sexy.

“God, yes, come on my dick. Come on my dick.”

I’m the one who comes. It shakes me. My balls draw up so tight it borders on pain. I’m shouting, probably gouging his thighs with my nails, looking a complete fool, and it’s so, so good releasing into him.

He’s still rocking on my cock, trying desperately to finish before I go soft. So foreign, the sight of him jerking himself with his eyebrows lowered, his chin tucked into his chest, as he watches his hand move. He’s making breathly noises, his soft, flat stomach jumping. His arsehole clenches so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t force my dick out. He whimpers and shoots a warm load on my chest. My first instinct is to lean away, but when my cock jerks inside him, I think this is something I can get used to.

Harry sighs, covering his face with his arm. “I’m sorry. Meant to get it on my hand.”

“S’all right,” I say honestly.

He’s not moving. I take his arm, pull it off his face, and rub his knuckles on my chin. I kiss them. He rolls his eyes, seemingly at himself, and lets his fingers graze my cheek for a long moment. Then he swishes his wand and the mess disappears. When he eases off my cock, the head pops out with a little noise, and he gasps as my mess pours out of him. I don’t know, even that’s sexy, and when we’re clean and dry, I curl around his back and wonder how many times I’ll have to fuck him tonight to make up for every moment I feel I’ve lost.

“Are you bi, now?” he asks, as I pull my fingers through his hair.

“I don’t think so.”

He rolls onto his back. His head is in the crook of my armpit. “What then?”

“I don’t feel the need to analyse it.”

“But then how do you know if you really like m—”

I kiss the dolt. There’s no doubt I like that. “Shut up now.”

“So romantic.”

“What were you expecting?”

“This,” he says against my mouth.

“And do you like this?”

His eyes are growing heavy, but he has enough in him to hum happily and say, “Yeah. For some reason, I do.”

 

***

 

Ginny Weasley is running down the hill towards the pond, wearing what I can only describe as the swimming-equivalent to lingerie.

“Ron, we got an owl from Charlie!” she says, waving a postcard. “He’s long-winded, as usual: _Dear family, love the job, hate the weather. Killer Quodpot. Met someone. Home for Christmas, Charlie_.” She looks at Potter, who is laying on the towel beside me. “Oh! Sorry, Harry, that was rude of me to read in front of you.”

“No,” Potter says, waving a hand. “I’m really happy for him.”

“Oh, yes. Me too,” I add, earning a round of laughter. Even Granger under her sun bonnet laughs, and that’s something. I think she’s starting to like me.

Potter leans over me, blocking the sun. “I’m getting pizza. Do you want anything?”

“Mm, Muggle grease pie? Or perhaps a fizzy glass of liquid sugar? It’s just so hard to choose.”

“Oy, I thought you were going to be extra charming on my birthday.”

“You’re right,” I say, touching his nose with my finger. “I’ll take water with a festive straw. May even dance around while I drink it.”

“Git.” He bounds away.

Potter’s 19th birthday party is atypical, to say the least. For mine, we went to the pubs, got sloshed, smoked something dubious, and snogged in a back alley until Pansy threatened to tell my father on me I didn’t get home and go to bed. For Ginny’s, we used my dad’s box seats to catch a Quidditch match, and someone from the _Prophet_ snapped a photo of me with my hand creeping towards Potter’s groin and I had to deal with _that_ when I got home (Dad’s getting over it, but I’m not allowed to use the box seats for my “improprieties” anymore). When Weasley and Granger asked what Potter wanted to do for hisbirthday, Potter shrugged and said, “Nothing.” After some prodding, he admitted to wanting something he’d never got as a child but had been subject to watching from the crack of his cupboard door: a romp at home with his friends, maybe something with pizza, cake, fizzy drink, streamers, and hats. In the end, it was decided that streamers and hats were a bit overkill and that a swimming party would be fitting for July, so Weasley’s mum had thrown together the events of today. Which is how I find myself laying on a pool towel, caked in sun-block potion, as about twenty schoolmates splash and shout nearby. It’s too much for my taste. But Potter? Seeing him smile as wide as he is now? I’d do it for him every day of the week, if he asked.

“I think I’m going to eat a whole pizza by the end of today,” he says, plopping down next to me. (He forgot my damn water.) “I’ll be as big as Dudley, at this rate.”

“Before you bite that nasty thing—” I grab the back of his neck, and lean up for a slow kiss.

“Mm,” he says, pulling back with heavy-lidded eyes. “What was that for?”

“For being mine, I think.”

He breaks into a dazzling grin. Hell, maybe he is hunky.

I know he’s caught between wanting to play in the water and wanting to be near me. I’m selfish for a while yet, laying on my stomach and complaining until he slathers me with more potion. I enjoy his hands, though mostly I enjoy forcing Weasley to hide his face in the crook of Granger’s neck.

When the sun is high, Potter hops to his feet. “Want to swim? I’ll race you.”

“I’m tanning,” I say, hoping he’ll stay.

“Crisping, more like. Ron, wait up!”

He runs away, managing to splash me with lake water from quite a distance. For a man so small, he’s as dense as a stone. I forgive him. His arse is nice from this angle, even in trunks. Too bad he wouldn’t wear the tiny Speedo I bought him.

I’m watching him battle Weasley, Dean Thomas, and Seamus Finnegan with spongy clubs transfigured from lake weeds when two girls stroll by, obscuring my view. Lavender Brown and Astoria are eyeballing me, as I prop myself on my elbows looking dashingly handsome, if you ask me. They are also clad in swimming lingerie, and Astoria is ample in those pleasing ways and Brown is slim and tight. But nothing stirs in me. Not like it would have two years ago. Certainly not in that frantic way it would have around the time I first caught Potter doing you-know-what in that candlelit classroom.

I lean around the girls. There he is. He is looking back, if only for that moment before Weasley clobbers him in the head. He shouts with careless joy and tackles his friend. Though Potter is surrounded by friends, I see only him: his mess-head, his sly smile, his golden skin, his fiery spirit, and his eyes. His eyes, which glance back at me with trust, forgiveness, and a most improbable affection.

I realize it, perhaps for the first time: My eyes are for him, too. They have always belonged to Harry.

And so have I.

 

 

 

**the end**

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